0   FAMILIAR 


GIFT  OF 


OUTLINES 


OUTUNES 


A  COLLECTION  OF  BRIEF 
IMAGINATIVE  STUDIES  RELATED 

TQfcMANY  PHASES  OF  THOUGHT  AND 
JW 


,  AND  REPRESENTING  AN 

EFFORT  TO  GIVE  AN  INTER 

PRETATION  TO  FAMILIAR 

HUMAN  EXPERIENCES 

BY  JOHN  D.  BARRY 


PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  •  SAN  FRANCISCO 


COPYRIGHT,  1913 

BY 
JOHN  D.  BARRY,  SAN  FRANCISCO 


TO  THE 

TWO  THAT  CRITICIZED 
AND  SUGGESTED 


302329 


Preface 

IT  was  with  some  concern  that  I  began  to  publish  brief 
fictional  studies  in  the  San  Francisco  Bulletin.  There 
was  a  question,  whether,  in  a  daily  newspaper,  they 
would  meet  approval.  At  first  I  had  little  response.  As  I 
went  on,  however,  I  was  led  to  believe  that  the  studies 
were  making  an  appeal.  Meanwhile,  I  had  become  fascin 
ated  with  expressing  ideas  in  this  way.  The  allegorical 
form  I  found  particularly  attractive.  There  was  the  special 
charm  of  working  in  a  realm  where  the  surface  narrative 
was  less  significant  than  what  lay  beneath. 

The  name  of  the  studies  I  chose  because  it  suggested 
what,  in  writing  them,  I  had  tried  to  do.  They  might  easily 
have  been  amplified  into  stories  much  longer.  And  yet, 
I  liked  to  think  that,  in  their  brevity,  they  carried  their 
meaning  with  clearness.  If  the  reader  wished  he  might 
fill  out  the  outlines  for  himself,  with,  possibly,  more  satis 
faction  than  if  the  work  had  been  done  for  him. 

Obviously,  to  the  reasonably  careful  reader,  the  mean 
ing  of  an  allegory  or  of  any  imaginative  work,  ought  to  be 
plain.  If,  in  any  instance  here,  the  meaning  invites  ques 
tion  or  causes  bewilderment  the  fault  is  mine.  On  first 
publication  "The  Wife  of  the  Prophet''  led  to  so  astonish 
ing  a  misconception  on  the  part  of  a  few  readers  that  I 
might  have  thought  of  rewriting  it  if,  to  other  readers,  the 
intention  had  not  been  clear. 

"Before  the  Throne"  brought  upon  me  some  censure. 
One  correspondent  treated  me  with  severity  for  what  he 
considered  my  encouragement  of  evil-doing.  The  scheme, 
suggested  by  one  of  the  two  friends  mentioned  in  the 
dedication,  I  believed  to  be  highly  ethical.  I  was  so 
pleased  with  it,  that,  to  escape  the  torment  of  keeping  it 
in  my  mind  and  of  fearing  that  I  might  spoil  it,  I  set  to 
work  on  it  at  once.  Before  publishing  it,  I  went  over  it 


Preface 

many  times  and  I  pondered  the  philosophy.  I  was  con 
vinced  that  it  expressed  a  truth  sanctioned  by  Christianity 
and  by  many  other  religions  established  long  before 
Christianity,  and  that  it  would  meet  the  approval  of  those 
who  professed  no  religious  belief  whatsoever.  By  placing 
the  will  above  the  deed,  it  made  the  deed  inferior  to  the 
spirit.  It  tried  to  show  that  in  what  the  world  superficially 
regarded  as  moral  success  there  might  really  be  spiritual 
failure,  and  that  what  the  world  called  moral  failure  might 
be  spiritual  triumph.  It  might  have  had  for  text:  "As 
a  man  thinketh  in  his  heart,  so  is  he." 

The  severe  criticism  impressed  me  not  nearly  so  much 
as  the  comment  of  my  friend,  the  tolerant  Hindu  revolu 
tionist,  Har  Dayal:  "You  were  a  little  hard  on  the 
good  man.  After  all,  a  hypocrite  is  human  and  ought  to 
be  given  some  sympathy."  In  spite  of  that  remark,  whicht 
like  all  sincere  and  thoughtful  criticism,  kindly  expressed, 
started  reflection,  I  decided  to  reproduce  "Before  the 
Throne"  as  it  had  first  appeared.  Perhaps  I  was  not 
really  so  harsh  as  the  study  might  have  seemed  to  indicate 
to  so  profound  a  lover  of  his  kind  as  Har  Dayal.  When 
the  man  that  boasted  of  his  deeds  shrank  into  the  dark 
he  did  not  necessarily  meet  a  fate  less  beneficent  than  the 
realization  that,  before  he  could  become  spiritual,  he  must 
love  what  was  good. 

The  friend  that  suggested  "Before  the  Throne"  also 
suggested  "The  Jewels."  There  I  had  a  chance  to  express 
an  observation  all  the  more  inviting  for  the  reason  that  I 
knew  it  must  have  been  made  by  many  another.  So  often, 
in  human  relations,  I  reflected,  appreciation  was  mis 
placed,  the  self-assertive  presence  receiving  credit  denied  to 
the  finer  creature  that  shrank  from  notice.  Another  aspect 
of  marriage  I  was  able  to  deal  with  in  "The  Silences  of  the 
Soul,"  where  I  tried  to  give  expression  to  what  I  had  long 
felt  to  be  a  cause  of  misunderstanding  and  of  difference 
between  women  and  men,  a  cause,  by  the  way,  never  men- 

vi 


Preface 

tloned  in  the  divorce-court.  I  also  meant  to  suggest  the 
beauty  of  silence  in  the  intimacy  of  love,  the  wonder  of 
the  unexpressed,  and  the  disaster  that  might  result  front 
the  intrusion  of  curiosity  and  of  the  desire  for  the  expres 
sion  of  the  deeper  and  more  elusive  feelings  in  the  crude( 
medium  of  words. 

"The  Dream,"  suggested  by  the  other  of  two  friends 
mentioned  in  the  dedication,  gave  me  a  plan  that  applied 
not  only  to  the  longing  to  write,  so  common  among  people 
who  never  did  write,  but  also  to  those  other  longings  that, 
even  though  they  might  at  times  create  sadness,  neverthe 
less  brightened  life  and  sustained  confidence  through  their 
very  failure  to  reach  action.  Many  of  us,  I  knew,  secretly 
cherished  such  longings  and  confidence,  related  perhaps  to 
achievement  far  removed  from  our  daily  tasks  and  from 
our  natural  capacities,  expressing  the  spirit  of  idealism 
buried  deep  in  the  heart  of  man.  The  same  friend  out 
lined  to  me  "The  Runaways"  so  clearly  that  all  I  had  to 
do  was  to  write  the  words.  I  valued  it  because  it  put  into 
dramatic  form  a  conception  of  life  that,  from  the  most 
casual  observer,  could  not  fail  to  be  verified. 

The  thought  in  "A  Discovery"  must  have  occurred  to 
many  people  down  the  ages.  Long  ago  Epictetus  gave  it 
expression  and  it  has  been  expressed  by  many  another 
writer.  For  this  reason  it  was  none  the  less  serviceable. 
The  more  it  was  disseminated,  the  greater  would  be  the 
comfort  it  might  offer  in  time  of  trial,  rousing  the  mind  to 
a  livelier  sense  of  nature's  wisdom.  Each  day  is,  truly,  in 
itself  a  life.  It  is  all  we  know.  In  a  brief  space  it  asks  us 
to  meet  our  problems  with  the  promise  of  rest  at  the  end. 
To  know  how  to  live  wisely  for  one  day  is  to  possess  the 
secret  of  living. 

My  purpose  in  "The  Other  Self"  was  not  so  much  to 
project  the  familiar  idea  of  double  personality  as  to  dram 
atize  the  serene,  inscrutable  being  within  everyone  of  us, 
looking  on  and  warning  just  as  we  were  about  to  commit 


vn 


Preface 

our  blunders.  If  we  could  identify  ourselves  with  that 
other  one,  if  we  could  always  follow  those  mysterious  sug 
gestions,  emanating  from  a  source  so  far  within  as  at  times 
to  seem  hardly  a  part  of  us,  how  much  suffering  we  should 
be  spared.  There  are,  apparently,  those,  more  change 
able  than  the  chameleon,  who  have  not  two  only,  but  many 
personalities.  At  moments,  even  they,  with  all  their  in 
stability,  must  be  aware  of  the  inscrutable  presence,  main 
taining  a  definite  identity,  calm  in  the  midst  of  disorder, 
offering  counsel  none  the  less  devotedly  for  meeting  fre 
quent  rejection. 

Of  all  the  studies,  the  one  that  apparently  made  the 
most  satisfactory  appeal  was  "The  Idea."  The  reason 
might  be  found  in  the  presentation  of  the  theory  that,  if 
justice  were  ever  to  be  approximated  in  this  world,  it  must 
be  through  universal  inspiration,  rousing  mankind  to  the 
folly  of  our  widespread  distinctions.  Then,  too,  there  may 
have  been,  among  some  readers,  at  any  rate,  the  recogni 
tion  that  many  of  our  greatest  thoughts  and  impulses  came, 
not  from  the  classes  or  from  the  persons  specially  favored, 
but  from  the  common  heart  of  mankind. 

In  the  studies  dealing  with  labor  I  put  into  concrete 
form  and  into  action  social  conceptions  and  ideals  now 
under  general  discussion  and  rapidly  finding  wide  accept 
ance.  <(The  Dilemma"  enabled  me  to  emphasize  the  per 
sonal  responsibility  borne  by  the  every-day  citizen  careless 
of  his  share  in  legal  killing.  The  themes  concerned  with 
the  life  of  the  spirit  gave  freedom  for  play  of  the  imagina 
tion  and  of  the  hope  for  continued  existence  so  strong  in 
most  human  beings. 

The  writings  of  the  studies  was  a  pleasure,  chiefly  for 
the  reason  that  they  seemed  to  write  themselves. 

San  Francisco,  October  17,  1913. 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 

PREFACE         V 

*THE   IDEA I 

THE    SACRIFICE 9 

THE  WOLVES 12 

THE    JEWELS 14 

A    HAPPY   MAN 17 

~*  THE    DISCOVERY 21 

->    THE   OTHER   SELF 25 

WHO  COMMITTED  THE  MURDER? 30 

THE  WIFE  OF  THE  PROPHET 33 

THE    SPRING 36 

THE    MOUNTAIN 39 

THE  RUNAWAYS 44 

THE  CRITIC 47 

THE   REVEALER 50 

THE   LABORERS           53 

THE   MODEL  PRISON 56 

BEFORE  THE  THRONE            60 

THE  BEAUTY 63 

THE  OGRES            67 

THE  CITY  OF  LAROR 73 

THE  PRISONERS 78 

THE  INJURY 82 

THE  SILENCES  OF  THE  SOUL 85 

THE  BURIED  TREASURE 9! 

THE  EVIL  PASSIONS 94 

THE  ENEMY 99 

THE  RE-BIRTH         IO2 

THE  GIANT'S  DAUGHTER 105 

THE   CRIME Ill 

THE  DREAM 1 14 

THE  SHINING  SOLDIERY 117 

THE    MATE I2O 

ix 


CONTENTS 

THE  HAUNTED  SOUL 123 

THE   FAREWELL I2/ 

THE  DOUBLE I3O 

ON   THE   HEIGHTS 135 

AT  THE  GATE 138 

THE   BUILDERS 141 

A    LACE    HANDKERCHIEF 146 

A   DILEMMA 149 

THE    COMMUNITY 154 

THE  VIRTUES 157 

A    MARRIAGE l62 

THE   LOSS 1 66 

ON  SHIPBOARD 169 

FEAR ^  .        .        .  173 

A   HATER  OF  EVIL 176 


OUTLINES 


THE  IDEA 

A  "I  IDEA  ran  up  and  down  the  world,  seeking  ex 
pression. 
No  one  heeded. 

Almost  discouraged,  the  Idea  happened  to  pass  the 
hut  of  a  hermit  on  a  mountain.  The  door  was  open.  The 
Idea  entered. 

The  hermit  was  sitting  at  his  bedside,  absorbed  in 
thought.  He  was  a  large  man,  with  a  shaggy  head.  His 
mild  face  was  almost  hidden  by  his  hair  and  beard. 

"Well,  well!"  he  said  with  a  smile.  "What  an  inspir 
ing  idea  you  are.  You  are  the  most  beautiful  thing  I've 
ever  known.  But  why  do  you  come  here  ?  It's  the  people 
in  the  great  world  yonder  that  need  you  most.  They 
are  perishing  for  you.  I  gave  up  the  world  long  ago  just 
because  ideas  like  you  didn't  flourish  there." 

In  a  weak  voice  the  Idea  explained. 

The  hermit  listened  gravely.  "They  were  always  like 
that,  the  people  of  the  world.  They  are  afraid  of  beau 
tiful  things.  They  won't  even  know  that  you  are  beau 
tiful  till  some  one  tells  them." 

"But  I  want  to  do  them  good,"  the  Idea  protested, 
obviously  pleased  with  the  compliment,  however. 

The  hermit  shook  his  head. 

"You  mustn't  let  them  suspect  that  you  want  to  do 
them  good.  If  you  do,  they  will  cast  you  out  with 
bitterness." 

"Perhaps  that's  the  mistake  I  made,"  said  the  Idea 
ruefully.  "But  there  must  be  someone  in  the  great  world 
that  will  be  kind  to  me." 

FOR  A  LONG  TIME  the  hermit  was  absorbed  in  thought. 
Then  he  said:    "There  is  one  hope,  friend.     In  a  great 


THE  IDEA 

city  there  lives  a  man  who  loves  his  brother  man.  He  is 
called  a  poet.  He  sees  things  that  other  people  cannot  see, 
and  things  that  other  people  see  falsely  he  sees  in  their 
true  character.  Go  to  him.  It  may  be  that  he  will  love 
you  and  show  the  world  how  beautiful  you  are  and  make 
you  a  light  in  darkness." 

"O,  thank  you,"  said  the  Idea,  modestly  adding,  "I'll 
be  satisfied  if  I  can  only  do  good." 

The  hermit  gave  the  poet's  name  and  address  and  eager 
ly  the  Idea  darted  away,  over  the  mountains  and  across 
the  seas  to  the  great  city. 

IN  A  SIMPLE  HOUSE  the  Idea  found  the  poet.  He  was 
gazing  out  of  the  window  at  the  sunset. 

The  Idea  noticed  that  he  appeared  to  be  sad. 

But  as  soon  as  the  Idea  entered  his  brain  his  eyes  be 
came  luminous. 

"O,  Alice,  Alice!"  he  called,  and  he  turned  to  his  wife 
who  was  sewing  by  the  table. 

She  looked  up.    "What  is  it?"  she  said. 

He  told  her  about  the  Idea. 

Her  face  darkened.  "Is  that  all  ?"  she  said.  "It  strikes 
me  as  perfectly  ridiculous.  People  will  say  you're  becom 
ing  dangerous.  You're  writing  too  many  of  those  fan 
tastic  things  anyway.  Why  don't  you  do  something  that 
will  make  money?" 

The  agitation  in  the  poet's  mind  came  very  near  dis 
lodging  the  Idea. 

That  night  the  Idea  heard  the  poet  talk  with  a  friend 
about  having  no  sympathy  at  home,  no  understanding, 
and  about  the  struggle  for  bread. 

The  next  day  the  poet  began  to  write  a  song  for  music 
that  he  knew  would  sell. 

Then  followed  a  riot  in  the  poet's  mind. 

The  Idea  was  crowded  out. 


THE  IDEA 


THE  IDEA  flew  to  the  hermit,  nearly  exhausted.  The 
hermit  did  not  look  surprised.  "Back  so  soon?"  he  said. 
"I  thought  you  might  stay  longer." 

"I'm  afraid  there  is  no  place  for  me  in  the  great  world," 
said  the  Idea,  proceeding  to  tell  the  story. 

The  hermit  listened  attentively,  shaking  his  head. 
"Poets  are  not  responsible,"  he  said.  "You  mustn't  blame 
them.  They  feel  things  that  most  people  don't  notice,  and 
they  are  easily  hurt.  The  marvel  is  that  they  should  be 
able  to  endure  the  world  at  all.  Rest  here  tonight  and 
tomorrow  I  shall  think  of  someone  in  the  world  that  will 
receive  you." 

In  the  morning  the  Idea  was  refreshed  and  more 
hopeful. 

The  hermit  was  in  fine  spirits. 

"Have  you  thought  of  someone?"  asked  the  Idea  with 
great  concern. 

The  hermit  nodded.  "There  is  a  great  leader  who  lives 
in  a  far-off  country.  He  is  always  telling  people  what  is 
good  for  them.  As  soon  as  he  sees  you  he  may  realize 
the  wonderful  service  you  can  do  for  mankind." 

The  hermit  mentioned  the  great  leader  by  name. 
"Strange  I  never  thought  of  him,"  said  the  Idea,  flying  into 
the  air. 

THE  IDEA  found  the  leader  at  a  public  meeting.  He  was 
delivering  an  address.  At  intervals  he  would  stop  till  the 
cheering  ceased.  The  Idea  whispered  to  him.  Then  he 
whispered  back:  "This  is  not  the  time  nor  the  place.  I 
will  take  you  home  with  me  and  think  you  over." 

So  the  Idea,  quite  happy,  found  rest  in  the  leader's  brain, 
which  was  glowing  with  excitement  and  generous  purpose. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  the  leader  reached 
home.  He  ate  something,  and  he  drank  something,  and, 
as  he  sat  in  his  library  and  smoked,  he  discovered  the  Idea 
sitting  up  in  his  mind  all  ready  to  be  addressed. 


THE  IDEA 

"O,  hello!"  he  said. 

The  Idea  nodded,  smiling. 

"That  was  funny,  your  coming  to  me  in  a  flash  at  the 
meeting." 

"It  was  easy  to  get  in,"  said  the  Idea.  "You  were  in 
such  a  sympathetic  state  of  mind  I  hoped  you  would  use 
me  right  off." 

"Ah,  but  how  could  I  use  you  when  I  hadn't  time  to 
look  you  over  and  find  out  just  what  you  were?  I  didn't 
even  know  that  you  were  an  Idea.  I  thought  you  might 
be  an  impulse." 

"Oh,  if  I  could  only  be  an  impulse,"  said  the  Idea,  "a 
powerful  impulse  that  would  move  men  the  world  over. 
That  is  my  ambition." 

The  leader  smiled.  "I'm  afraid  of  impulses,"  he  said. 
"I  used  to  give  way  to  them,  but  now  that  I  am  getting 
on  in  years  I've  grown  more  careful." 

"Oh,"  said  the  Idea,  disappointed. 

"Now  tell  me  what  you  have  to  say  for  yourself,"  said 
the  leader,  in  a  tone,  however,  not  encouraging. 

The  Idea  began  to  plead.  But  the  great  man  remained 
unmoved. 

"You  are  too  far  ahead  of  your  time,"  he  said.  "The 
people  wouldn't  understand  you.  And  I  must  keep  close 
to  the  people.  If  I  don't  they  will  leave  me." 

"But  I  have  come  to  do  the  people  good,"  the  Idea 
protested.  "I  have  come  to  make  them  one  people.  I 
have  come  to  save  mankind." 

The  great  leader  closed  his  eyes.  "I  think  I've  heard 
that  kind  of  talk  before,"  he  said.  "It  doesn't  interest  me 


now." 


Without  another  word  he  dismissed  the  Idea. 

IN  THE  MORNING  the  Idea  stood  at  the  gate  of  the  hermit, 
with  eyes  wet  with  tears. 

"Ah!"  said  the  hermit,  and  without  another  word  he 


THE  IDEA 

took  the  Idea  in,  offering  shelter  and  warmth  and 
sustenance. 

"Don't  explain,"  said  the  hermit.  "I  understand.  The 
great  leader  has  become  successful.  It  seems  to  be  a 
law  of  life." 

After  a  time  the  Idea  recovered  somewhat.  "Is  there 
no  one  else?" 

The  hermit  grew  sad.  "My  poor  friend,"  he  said,  "I 
can't  bear  to  see  you  wear  yourself  out  with  traveling  over 
the  world." 

"But  I  don't  mind  traveling,"  said  the  Idea.  "It's  only 
failing  that  I  mind.  But  the  day  will  come  when  I  shall 
find  expression." 

So  the  hermit,  inspired  by  such  courage,  told  the  Idea 
of  a  third  man,  an  artist,  who  loved  beauty  above  all 
other  things  in  the  world  and  believed  that  men  would  be 
saved  by  beauty. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  Idea,  "the  beauty  of  service,  of 
brotherhood,  of  love.  Tell  me  where  he  is  that  I  may 
give  myself  to  him." 

"Perhaps  he  will  weave  from  you  one  of  his  wonderful 
tales  to  go  down  the  ages,  carrying  the  message  of  the 
spirit,"  said  the  hermit,  and,  with  a  sigh,  he  gave  the 
artist's  address. 

The  next  moment  the  Idea  was  miles  away. 

THE  IDEA  found  the  artist  taking  an  early  morning  walk. 

The  artist  was  astonished.  "Oh,  how  beautiful  you 
are,"  he  said. 

The  Idea  smiled,  but  not  through  vanity  or  pride, 
through  hope  alone. 

"If  I  have  beauty  I  wish  to  place  myself  in  your  mind 
so  that  you  may  weave  from  me  one  of  those  wonderful 
tales  and  move  the  world." 

The  artist  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  afraid  that  I  can't  do  anything  with  you.     I  am 


THE  IDEA 

old  and  I  am  tired.  I  should  be  tormented  with  the  fear 
of  spoiling  you.  For  at  least  one  year  in  my  life  I  should 
have  no  peace,  and  at  my  age  a  year  of  torment  means  a 
great  deal.  I  want  to  have  comfort  before  I  go.  I  want 
to  rest.  I  have  had  many  burdens  to  carry  and  often  I 
have  carried  them  to  no  purpose.  When  I  have  done  a 
thing  that  I  tried  to  make  beautiful,  people  have  blamed 
me  and  asked  why  I  didn't  do  something  else.  Besides, 
my  readers  expect  a  certain  kind  of  thing  from  me  now. 
I  must  not  disappoint  them.  I  have  become  their  slave. 
Once  I  should  have  been  glad  to  use  you,  but  not  now, 
not  now." 

Disheartened,  the  Idea  went  away. 

ONCE  MORE  the  Idea  sank  before  the  hermit. 

The  hermit  could  have  wept  for  pity.  He  began  to 
feel  that  the  Idea  belonged  to  him. 

His  kindness  gradually  brought  the  Idea  back  to  vigor. 

"You  will  stay  with  me  now,  will  you  not,"  said  the 
hermit,  "and  be  my  comfort,  my  joy  in  my  age?" 

Sadly  the  Idea  replied:  "Can't  you  see  that  here,  of 
all  the  places  in  the  world,  I  cannot  stay?  I  must  go  to  the 
haunts  of  men,  where  I  have  work  to  do." 

The  hermit  grieved.  "You  are  right,  friend,"  he  said. 
"It  is  because  I  left  the  haunts  of  men,  where  my  duty  lay, 
and  selfishly  came  here  to  seek  peace  that  I  am  unfit  to 
keep  you.  Go,  then,  and  find  your  happiness  in  service, 
as  I  should  have  done.  It  is  the  only  way.  Since  you 
cannot  live  on  the  heights,"  he  went  on,  "maybe  there  is 
a  place  for  you  in  the  depths,  where  men  are  so  sorely  in 
need  of  your  message.  Seek  the  poor  and  lowly.  Among 
them  you  may  find  welcome." 

IT  TOOK  THE  IDEA  scarcely  more  than  a  second  to  reach 
the  slums  of  the  richest  city  in  the  world,  which  was  also 
the  poorest  city  in  the  world. 

6 


THE  IDEA 

But  there,  in  the  crowded  tenements,  the  Idea  could 
find  no  lodgment. 

All  the  windows  were  closed. 

They  had  been  closed  by  those  arch-enemies  of  man,  by 
poverty  that  denied  opportunity,  and  by  privation  that 
denied  nourishment  to  body  and  mind. 

Presently,  the  Idea  discovered  there  was  only  one  way 
of  reaching  the  multitude — through  the  heart. 

So,  timidly,  the  Idea  sought  for  a  chance  to  enter  the 
heart. 

One  day  the  Idea  saw  an  old  man,  who  had  grown 
tender  from  a  life-time  of  suffering. 

Swiftly  and  joyously  the  Idea  entered  the  heart  of 
the  man  and,  at  that  moment,  became  changed  into  an 
impulse. 

IT  WAS  MARVELOUS  how  the  impulse  spread. 

First,  the  old  man  spread  it  among  his  neighbors. 

The  neighbors  spread  it  among  the  poor  of  the  city. 

The  poor  of  the  city  spread  it  among  the  poor  of  the 
other  cities. 

Soon  it  enveloped  the  world. 

It  broke  into  a  cry,  the  cry  of  the  suffering  people,  the 
cry  of  brotherhood,  appealing  through  sympathy  and  love 
for  the  heritage  of  the  race. 

THE  POET  heard  the  cry. 

The  leader  heard  the  cry. 

The  artist  heard  the  cry. 

And  they  all  said,  each  to  himself:  "I  knew  that  this 
uprising  was  coming.  I  had  the  vision  of  the  prophet. 
Why  did  I  not  raise  my  voice? 

Then  of  one  accord  they  felt  new  strength,  and  they 
lifted  up  their  voices,  in  a  beautiful  poem,  in  a  mighty 
appeal,  in  a  wonderful  tale. 

Into  one  note  they  seemed  to  gather  the  yearnings  of 
humanity. 


THE  IDEA 

THE  WORLD  SAID  :  "This  movement  must  be  a  great  move 
ment  because  it  comes  from  such  great  leaders." 

And  people  marveled  that  the  leaders  should  be  inspired 
with  the  Idea  at  the  same  time  and  should  express  it  with 
such  conviction. 

They  said:  "Isn't  it  strange  the  way  an  idea  sweeps 
through  the  world?  It  is  like  magic." 

And  far  off,  on  the  mountain,  the  hermit  heard  the 
good  news  and  rejoiced. 


THE  SACRIFICE 

A  MAN  offered  his  life  to  a  woman. 
Joyously  the  woman  offered  her  life  in  return. 
They  agreed  to  share  everything,  their  happiness 
and  their  sorrow,  their  fears  and  their  hopes,  to  mingle 
their  destiny. 

They  were  wonderfully  happy. 

The  woman  lifted  her  heart  in  thankfulness  to  God. 

The  man  knelt  at  her  feet  and  worshiped  her. 

AFTER  THE  FIRST  YEAR  the  man  grew  tired  of  kneeling  at 
the  woman's  feet. 

He  rose  and  stood  beside  her. 

She  missed  the  worship.  But  it  made  her  happy  to  have 
him  stand  beside  her.  It  made  her  think  he  was  strong. 

Presently  he  towered  above  her. 

She  stood  under  his  arm. 

There  were  moments  when  he  did  not  seem  to  know 
she  was  there. 

Those  moments  gave  her  concern. 

But  she  said  nothing.    She  was  afraid  of  disturbing  him. 

THE  TIME  CAME  when  she  saw  that  he  had  forgotten  her. 

He  had  gone  back  to  the  world. 

The  world  was  giving  him  power  and  glory. 

She  had  become  simply  a  part  of  his  complicated  life, 
a  small  part. 

She  was  like  a  cog  in  the  wheels,  expected  to  do  her 
work  without  credit,  without  notice. 

In  her  soul  she  rebelled. 

She  cried  out  to  God  that  she  was  enduring  an  infamy. 

It  was  not  for  such  a  return  that  she  had  dedicated 
herself  to  the  man. 

But  God  did  not  seem  to  hear. 


THE  SACRIFICE 

THE  WOMAN  began  to  think  that  God,  too,  had  forgotten 
her. 

Her  heart  grew  bitter. 

Outwardly  she  remained  the  same. 

The  man  noticed  no  change. 

His  failure  to  notice  embittered  her  the  more. 
THE  DAY  CAME  when  the  woman  decided  she  could  no 
longer  endure  her  suffering. 

She  tried  to  think  what  to  do. 

She  saw  that  she  must  escape  from  herself,  from  the 
bitterness  of  her  heart. 

She  thought  of  death. 

But  she  could  not  be  sure  that  death  would  enable  her 
to  escape  from  herself.  It  might  bind  her  to  herself  for 
all  eternity. 

What  then  could  she  do? 

She  might  become  another  woman. 

It  was  only  in  life  that  she  could  be  sure  of  becoming 
another  woman. 

She  had  learned  that  in  self-forgetfulness  lay  the  road 
to  peace  and  happiness. 

So  she  resolved  to  forget  self. 

For  herself  she  would  ask  nothing,  she  would  expect 
nothing.  She  would  think  only  of  others. 

Most  of  all  she  would  think  of  him  whom  she  had  come 
to  believe  the  least  worthy. 

For  a  second  time  she  dedicated  her  life  to  him. 

ON  THAT  DAY  the  real  life  of  the  woman  began. 

Everything  changed  in  her  sight. 

Where  once  there  had  been  resentment,  there  was  pity. 

She  saw  the  man  as  he  really  was,  the  man  of  success, 
of  achievement  in  the  world,  small,  narrow,  selfish,  weak. 

She  saw  that  he  had  demanded  from  her  so  much 
because  he  had  needed  her  so  much. 

She  gave  more  and  more. 

10 


THE  SACRIFICE 

And  the  more  she  gave  the  more  she  had  to  give  and  the 
more  she  pitied  him. 

And  the  more  she  pitied  him  the  more  she  loved  him. 

The  old  passion  was  gone  and  the  selfish  longing  for 
return. 

In  its  place  was  a  greater  and  a  purer  passion,  like  the 
love  of  a  mother  for  a  helpless  child. 

Meanwhile  she  remained  under  his  elbow. 

He  did  not  seem  to  think  she  was  there. 

THE  DAY  CAME  when  the  world  tired  of  the  man. 

Scornfully,  pitilessly,  it  rejected  him. 

He  became  the  laughter  of  men,  the  mockery. 

She  was  the  only  one  he  had  to  turn  to. 

He  found  her  there  at  his  elbow. 

He  looked  surprised,  bewildered. 

He  realized  that  she  had  been  there  all  the  time,  holding 
him  up. 

He  saw  all  that  he  had  been  before. 

And  in  his  anguish  he  saw  how  much  she  had  given  him 
and  how  much  more  she  still  had  to  give. 

And  he  saw  that  he  could  offer  her  in  return  the  supreme 
moment  of  her  life,  the  moment  when  he  should  accept 
her  pardon  and  place  at  her  feet  all  his  shame  and  despair. 

But  when  he  tried  to  bend  his  knee  she  held  him  with 
her  strong  arms. 

She  could  not  accept  such  abasement. 

And  in  her  refusal  he  saw  all  the  beauty  that  she  had 
achieved  through  her  unselfishness. 

It  enveloped  her  like  a  halo.  It  made  her  face  shine 
with  happiness. 


ii 


THE  WOLVES 

ONCE  there  lived  a  man  that  saw  into  the  meaning 
of  things. 
He  saw  that  many  things  which  seemed  to  be 
alive  were  really  dead. 

Those  dead  things  were  called  Great  Institutions. 
The  Great  Institutions  were  corrupting  the  world. 
They  were  keeping  the  world  from  the  truth.     They 
were  passing  off  the  semblance  for  the  reality. 

They  were  poisoning  the  source  of  the  living  waters. 
So  the  man  raised  his  voice  in  warning. 

THERE  WAS  an  outcry. 

The  multitude  that  heard  the  warning  declared  it  was 
profanation. 

They  denounced  the  voice  as  the  voice  of  heresy,  inspired 
by  the  evil  one. 

They  had  lost  the  power  to  distinguish  the  semblance 
from  the  reality. 

Their  fury  turned  them  into  ravening  wolves. 

They  drove  the  man  from  their  territory. 

He  became  an  exile,  forced  to  live  among  strangers, 
who  took  him  in  from  pity. 

THE  WORDS  of  the  man  had  not  fallen  on  barren  ground, 
however. 

They  flowered  into  thoughts. 

The  thoughts  softened  the  hearts  of  the  wolves. 

And  after  many  years,  under  the  influence  of  the 
thoughts,  the  wolves  became  men  again. 

They  recalled  the  warning  of  that  voice  which,  so 
many  years  before,  they  had  denounced. 

They  said:  "He  was  wise.  He  spoke  before  his  time. 
But  now  that  we  have  caught  up  with  him,  let  us  find  him 

12 


THE    WOLVES 

again  and  bring  him  into  the  public  square  and  place  a 
laurel  wreath  upon  his  brow." 

They  sent  for  him  through  the  city.    He  was  not  there. 

They  sent  for  him  through  the  country.  But  no  tidings 
could  they  find. 

They  cried  aloud  his  name  throughout  the  world. 

And  from  a  little  village  in  a  far  off  country,  where 
the  simple  lived,  came  the  news  that  he  was  dead. 

He  had  been  dead  for  years  and  years. 

THEY  BROUGHT  BACK  the  body. 

They  gave  it  a  magnificent  funeral. 

They  had  a  statue  raised  to  the  heretic  in  the  market 
place,  where  every  day  the  multitude  used  to  gather. 

Soon  they  became  used  to  seeing  the  statue  in  the 
market  place. 

They  forgot  what  it  stood  for. 

Meanwhile,  there  appeared  among  them  another  man 
with  sight.  He  showed  how  the  figure  in  the  market  place 
had  ceased  to  represent  the  truth. 

In  rage,  the  people  snarled  at  him  and  became  wolves 
again. 

THE  WOLVES  prowled  around  that  statue,  seeking  to 
devour  the  heretic. 

The  figure  of  the  man  that,  in  life,  they  had  once  sought 
to  devour  they  treated  with  reverence. 

For  he,  too,  had  become  a  Great  Institution. 


THE  JEWELS 

A  RICH  man  had  a  great  collection  of  jewels.    They 
were  his  pride.    At  every  opportunity  he  used  them 
for  display.     Toward  those  who  were  indifferent 
he  felt  suspicious  and  resentful.     At  words  and  looks  of 
admiration  he  would  glow.     No  one  could  pay  his  jewels 
an   extravagant  compliment.     The   appreciation  that  he 
himself  felt  no  one  else  could  express. 

THE  MAN'S  WIFE,  also,  had  a  collection  of  jewels.  But  to 
her  they  were  not  objects  of  pride.  In  comparing  them 
with  her  husband's  collection,  she  felt  ashamed.  The  man 
too,  believed  they  were  of  little  value.  His  attitude  further 
cheapened  them  in  the  eyes  of  the  wife.  His  collection 
seemed  to  her  the  most  wonderful  in  the  world,  the  most 
precious,  the  most  rare. 

ONE  DAY  the  man  heard  that  a  connoisseur  in  jewels  had 
come  to  town.  He  invited  the  connoisseur  to  his  house. 
When  the  jewels,  large  and  shining  and  many-hued,  were 
opened  on  the  table,  the  connoisseur,  standing  between 
husband  and  wife,  looked  at  them  curiously,  taking  them 
out  one  by  one  in  his  hands.  On  his  face  appeared  a 
cynical  smile. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?"  the  husband  asked  with 
impatience.  "Don't  you  agree  with  me  that  I  have  an 
exceptional  collection?" 

"You  have  indeed  an  exceptional  collection,"  the  man 
replied.  "It  makes  a  fine  display.  But  not  one  of  the 
jewels  is  real." 

The  man  could  hardly  restrain  his  anger.  But  he  was 
determined  to  show  that  he  was  a  gentleman.  Besides,  he 
felt  sure  of  being  able  to  convince  the  skeptic.  He  started 
to  explain  how  much  these  jewels  had  cost. 

14 


THE   JEWELS 

The  connoisseur  raised  his  hand  in  protest.  "It  is  not 
necessary.  I  know  how  dearly  buyers  pay  for  such 
counterfeits.  And  you  are  not  the  only  one  that  has  paid. 
Others  have  paid  even  more  dear." 

The  man  was  almost  beside  himself.  "What  do  you 
mean?"  he  cried. 

But  the  connoisseur  had  turned  to  the  man's  wife,  who, 
bewildered  and  frightened,  stood  gazing  at  the  jewels 
through  tears. 

"You  have  jewels,  too,  have  you  not?" 

"Oh,  no."  The  wife  shrank  away.  "None  that  are 
worth  showing." 

The  husband  broke  into  a  scornful  laugh.  "If  you  have 
a  poor  opinion  of  my  jewels,  what  would  you  think  of 
hers?" 

THE  CONNOISSEUR  kept  looking  at  the  wife.  "Won't  you 
let  me  see  your  collection?"  he  asked. 

The  husband  was  scowling.  "Since  he  insists,  bring 
them."  He  still  believed  that  he  could  put  down  this 
fellow. 

Obediently  the  wife  disappeared  into  the  next  room. 
Soon  she  returned,  bearing  in  her  hand  a  small  box.  She 
removed  the  cover.  Beside  that  other  collection,  the 
jewels  seemed  very  pale  and  small.  But  when  they  stood 
on  the  table  the  light  from  above,  striking  on  their  sur 
face,  burst  into  a  multitude  of  brilliant  colors. 

The  connoisseur's  breath  caught. 

Again  the  husband  laughed,  this  time  with  triumph. 
"Those  things  are  so  common  and  cheap,  I  won't  let  my 
wife  wear  them  in  public." 

THE  CONNOISSEUR  was  paying  no  heed.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  jewels.  After  a  long  time  he  raised  his  head 
and  looked  at  the  wife  with  wonder  and  awe.  Then  he 
turned  slowly  to  the  husband.  "I  think  I  understand 


THE   JEWELS 

now/'  he  said,  as  if  speaking  to  himself.  "They  have 
always  been  beautiful,  those  jewels,''  he  went  on,  address 
ing  the  wife.  "But  they  have  grown  more  beautiful  during 
the  past  few  years.  How  long  have  you  been  married?" 
he  abruptly  demanded. 

The  wife  looked  timidly  at  her  husband,  as  if  question 
ing  whether  she  ought  to  speak.  He  spoke  for  her.  "Ten 
years." 

The  connoisseur's  gaze  returned  to  the  wife.  "They 
will  grow  more  and  more  precious  so  long  as  they  are  in 
your  possession." 

THE  HUSBAND  was  really  amused  now.  The  fellow  must 
be  an  impostor.  "How  much  are  they  worth?"  he  asked, 
carelessly  nodding  in  the  direction  of  the  jewels. 

"How  much?"  the  connoisseur  repeated. 

"Yes,  how  much  are  they  worth  in  the  market?  How 
much  money?" 

The  connoisseur  smiled.  "They  would  bring  no  money 
in  the  market." 

The  husband  broke  into  his  roar.  "You  say  those 
feminine  baubles  are  beautiful  and  wonderful  and  precious. 
And  yet  they  are  not  worth  anything  in  the  market. 
What's  the  reason?" 

"The  reason  is  very  simple,"  said  the  connoisseur. 
"There  are  some  things  in  the  world  that  are  priceless." 


16 


A  HAPPY  MAN 

A  MAN  looked  out  on  the  world  and  laughed  for 
joy. 
He  saw  the  great  dome  of  the  sky,  with  diapha 
nous   clouds   majestically   sailing   across   the   blue.      He 
saw  the  sun  pouring  gold  into  the  air  and  on  the  roofs 
and  into  the  windows  of  a  multitude  of  homes.     He  saw 
waving  trees  and  flowers  and  a  wide  sweep  of  moving 
water.     And  he  saw  people  with  happy  faces,  eagerly 
talking. 

He  said  to  himself,  "Life  is  good,"  and  he  looked  up 
and  he  had  a  wonderful  feeling  of  sympathy  that  made 
him  related  to  the  people  and  the  moving  water  and  the 
gold  in  the  atmosphere,  to  the  flowers,  the  trees  and  to 
the  great  dome  of  the  sky. 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  his  shoulders  and  he  felt 
life  coursing  through  him. 

And  what  he  called  life  was  really  love. 

SOON  THERE  CAME  a  day  when  there  was  no  sun,  when 
the  air  was  thick  with  rain,  when  the  flowers  were  vanished 
and  the  trees  were  bare. 

And  the  man  laughed.  He  liked  the  rain.  He  would 
go  out  and  let  it  beat  upon  him,  with  his  head  bent  and 
his  shoulders  pressing  eagerly  forward. 

He  knew  the  flowers  were  only  in  hiding.  After  a  few 
months,  very  shyly,  they  would  come  out  of  their  beds  and 
smile  and  look  up  at  the  sun  again.  And  the  trees,  too, 
would  put  on  fresh  verdure  and  open  their  leaves  to  the 
sky. 

For  being  away  so  long  they  would  seem  all  the  more 
beautiful. 

THERE  WAS  another  day  when  the  sun  shone  and  the 


A   HAPPY   MAN 

flowers  bloomed  and  the  trees  moved  and  the  water  danced 
without  making  the  man  laugh. 

In  his  heart  there  was  gloom.  And  the  gloom  darkened 
his  vision. 

He  said  to  himself :  "The  world  is  still  the  same  world. 
The  only  change  is  in  myself.  So  I  must  control  myself. 
If  I  don't  I  shall  go  blind.  I  shall  be  unable  to  see  the 
wonderful  things  about  me,  the  things  that  have  made  me 
laugh." 

So  he  would  force  himself  to  smile.  Someone  would 
smile  back.  He  would  feel  better. 

The  more  he  smiled  the  more  people  smiled  back  and 
the  brighter  the  world  grew. 

Presently  he  forgot  about  the  gloom.  When  he  looked 
for  it  he  was  elated  to  find  that  it  was  gone. 

THERE  WERE  MANY  DAYS  like  the  day  when  gloom 
threatened. 

But  the  man  always  knew  what  was  to  be  done. 

Gloom  finally  became  discouraged  and  never  came  back. 

People  used  to  say:  "Isn't  he  remarkable?  Nothing 
ever  seems  to  bother  him." 

Sometimes  they  wondered  what  would  happen  when  the 
big  trials  came.  They  didn't  understand  that  every  day 
of  his  life  he  was  practicing  to  meet  the  big  trials. 

The  first  came  to  the  man  in  the  guise  of  a  great  dis 
appointment.  He  had  expected  to  do  something  won 
derful.  It  would  bring  him  honor  and  reward.  And  he 
could  share  it  all  with  those  he  loved. 

But  just  when  he  thought  it  was  his  it  eluded  him.  And 
he  saw  that  it  would  never  return. 

The  world  grew  black  for  a  moment — but  only  for  a 
moment. 

During  that  moment  no  one  looked  on. 

When  it  was  over  the  man  assured  himself  that  the 
world  was  still  beautiful.  He  gazed  out  of  the  window 

18 


A   HAPPY   MAN 

and  through  a  haze  he  saw  the  sun  shining.  He  lifted 
his  head  and  threw  back  his  shoulders,  according  to  his 
habit  of  years.  He  drew  a  long  breath. 

He  could  not  laugh.    But  he  did  succeed  in  smiling. 

"I  must  do  better  the  next  time  this  kind  of  thing 
happens,"  he  said,  and  he  went  down  stairs  to  comfort 
and  distract  those  he  knew  would  be  grieving  for  him. 

And  there  he  found  such  increase  in  the  treasure  of  love 
that  he  forgot  all  about  that  other  treasure. 

In  fact,  that  other  treasure  did  not  seem  like  a  treasure 
at  all. 

A  WORSE  TRIAL  was  on  the  way  to  the  man.  One  that  was 
a  part  of  his  very  being,  the  blossom  of  his  life,  the  hope 
of  the  future,  was  suddenly  swept  out  of  the  world. 

He  felt  as  if  all  the  forces  of  life  had  turned  against 
him.  He  trembled  in  an  anguish  of  grief  and  fear. 

But  the  practice  of  years  helped  him.  He  must  not 
think  of  himself  now.  There  was  someone  else  far  more 
important  whose  grief  must  be  greater.  So  he  tried  to 
forget  about  himself. 

Once  more  he  realized  the  beauty  in  the  divine  mystery 
of  loss.  He  had  not  less  life  now,  but  more.  He  felt  a 
closer  relation  with  life,  the  life  about  him  and  the  life 
in  his  own  heart. 

Suffering  was  making  his  love  finer  and  deeper.  And 
it  was  giving  him  a  wider  understanding. 

OFTEN  PEOPLE  used  to  wonder.  They  knew  that  the 
man  had  not  won  any  of  the  things  the  world  considered 
the  prizes  of  life.  He  had  suffered  disappointment  and 
bereavement.  And  yet  he  met  life  smilingly,  gaily. 

Even  while  they  speculated  they  found  themselves  giving 
him  respect  and  affection.  Occasionally  some  of  them 
would  try  to  explain  the  mystery  by  saying :  "Well,  there's 
something  about  him — ."  But  they  got  no  nearer. 

19 


A   HAPPY  MAN 

WHEN  THE  MAN  grew  older  he  still  looked  young.  There 
was  youth  in  his  smile  and  in  his  eyes  and  in  his  response 
to  the  demands  of  the  day. 

He  would  often  sit  in  silence  for  a  long  time,  looking 
at  the  great  dome  of  the  sky,  with  diaphanous  clouds 
majestically  sailing  across  the  blue,  at  the  sun  pouring  gold 
into  the  air  and  on  the  roofs  and  into  the  windows  of  a 
multitude  of  homes,  at  the  waving  trees  and  the  flowers 
and  the  wide  sweep  of  moving  water,  and  at  the  people, 
with  happy  faces,  eagerly  talking. 


20 


THE  DISCOVERY 

THERE  was  a  man  discovered  that  life  consisted  of 
one  day. 
At  first  he  was  startled.    Then  he  felt  a  thrill  of 
delight.     Now  everything  was  easy.     Tasks,  once  many 
and  difficult,  became  as  nothing.     He  should  simply  have 
to  put  forth  his  strength  for  a  few  hours.  I 

He  had  a  new  aim,  to  make  the  day  perfect. 

THE  MAN  had  just  risen  from  sleep.  He  looked  out  of  the 
window.  He  felt  spring  in  the  air.  The  earth,  fertile  from 
the  long  rain,  was  bursting  into  grass  and  leaf.  He  had  a 
strange  exultation.  He  was  related  to  this  new  birth. 
He  reminded  himself  that  he  must  enjoy  while  he  could. 
For  he  had  but  one  day. 

AT  BREAKFAST  the  man  found  that  his  eggs  were  cooked 
too  much.  He  was  very  particular  about  his  eggs.  If 
they  were  not  soft  boiled,  he  believed  he  could  not  eat 
them.  His  wife  used  to  look  on  anxiously  when  he  cracked 
the  shells. 

He  felt  anger  surging  through  his  blood.  He  was  about 
to  break  out  into  an  expression  of  impatience.  Then  he 
remembered  that  life  consisted  of  one  day.  He  must  not 
begin  the  day  with  ill-feeling.  So  he  restrained  himself 
and  proceeded  to  eat  the  eggs  as  if  he  liked  them.  By 
putting  on  a  little  butter,  they  seemed  almost  soft.  Greatly 
to  his  surprise,  he  found  they  tasted  good. 

He  noticed  that  his  wife  looked  relieved.  "I'm  afraid 
your  eggs  aren't  done  quite  right,"  she  remarked  in  a 
tone  of  apology. 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  he  said.  And  he  went  on  eating 
and  he  began  to  talk  about  a  pleasant  subject.  During 

21 


THE    DISCOVERY 

the  rest  of  the  meal  he  had  a  good  deal  of  laughter  with 
his  wife.  When  he  went  out,  his  wife  kissed  him,  a  thing 
she  had  not  done  for  a  long  time. 

As  THE  MAN  walked  down  the  street  he  felt  young.  After 
all,  life  had  grown  very  much  pleasanter  since  he  dis 
covered  that  it  consisted  of  one  day.  He  took  a  new 
interest  in  the  men  he  met  on  the  street  car.  Somehow 
they  seemed  more  friendly. 

At  the  office  he  went  to  work  with  zest.  One  of  his 
subordinates  he  felt  tempted  to  scold  for  being  negligent 
in  a  matter  of  slight  importance.  Instead,  he  gave  a 
cheerful  reminder.  The  man  looked  grateful  and  became 
unusually  active  and  friendly. 

During  the  morning  several  trying  details  of  business 
came  up.  The  day  before  he  would  have  taken  them 
hard.  Now  he  could  not  afford  to  waste  himself.  He 
must  make  the  best  of  the  day.  Each  task  he  met  more 
lightly  than  he  had  done  before,  more  quietly.  At  noon 
the  sight  of  the  clerks  leaving  their  desks  reminded  him 
that  it  was  time  to  eat.  He  reflected  that  the  morning 
had  gone  rapidly — life,  indeed,  was  short.  However,  he 
had  a  good  appetite  and  he  proceeded  to  the  place  where 
he  usually  ate  luncheon.  There  he  was  astonished.  It 
was  the  same  place  and  yet  different.  Why  had  he  never 
before  perceived  how  desperately  those  fellows  scrambled 
for  places  and  how  fast  they  ate?  He  decided  not  to  sit 
up  on  that  high  stool  and  bolt  his  food.  He  would  go  to 
a  table  and  really  enjoy  himself.  After  all,  in  a  day  he  had 
only  three  meals.  To  spoil  one  of  them  would  be  a  pity. 

As  he  ate,  he  watched  the  other  men  darting  in  and  out. 
He  felt  sorry  for  them  and  yet  amused.  It  would  have 
been  a  pleasure  to  him  to  tell  them  that  life  consisted  of 
one  day.  But  they  would  not  understand.  They  would 
not  even  stop  to  listen.  They  would  think  he  was  out  of 
his  mind. 

22 


THE    DISCOVERY 

IN  THE  AFTERNOON  a  distressing  problem  came  up,,  an 
opportunity  for  tremendous  profit,  associated  with  a  slight, 
a  very  slight,  irregularity.  No  one  else  would  know  of  it. 
Besides,  most  men  in  business  would  have  considered  it 
justifiable.  But  most  men  did  not  know  that  life  consisted 
of  one  day. 

After  a  struggle  the  man  turned  aside  from  the  tempta 
tion.  Then  he  had  a  great  surprise.  He  felt  far  better 
than  he  would  have  done  if  he  had  yielded.  He  also  had 
a  sense  of  being  infused  with  new  strength.  And  it  was 
all  on  account  of  that  curious  discovery.  He  felt  like 
laughing.  Well,  he  would  celebrate.  In  the  evening  he 
would  take  his  wife  to  the  theater.  Today  had  been 
strangely  free  from  vexation  and  trouble.  He  would  make 
it  perfect.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he  ought  to  telephone 
to  his  wife.  She  liked  to  know  of  her  pleasures  in  advance 
and  to  make  preparation.  Often,  when  he  suggested  plans 
for  going  out  she  would  resist  them  on  the  ground  that  she 
did  not  have  time  to  dress.  As  a  rule  he  was  very  impatient 
with  her  attitude.  Today,  however,  he  must  do  as  she 
wished,  so  that  there  should  not  be  the  slightest  jar  to 
harmony.  So  he  put  off  an  important  matter  for  a  few 
minutes  and,  with  some  difficulty,  he  succeeded  in  getting 
the  number. 

FROM  THE  WAY  his  wife  spoke  the  man  saw  that  she  was 
surprised.  At  first  she  showed  something  like  suspicion  of 
his  motives.  There  was  a  moment  of  danger  when  he 
came  near  scolding.  Finally,  he  succeeded  in  persuading 
her  that  he  actually  wished  her  to  go  to  the  theater  with 
him  and  that  she  was  to  choose  the  play.  As  a  rule  he 
decided  all  such  things  for  himself.  They  had  some 
parleying  as  to  whether  she  really  ought  to  choose. 
Finally  she  confessed  that  she  had  secretly  been  longing 
to  see  a  certain  comic  opera.  Though  he  did  not  care 
for  comic  opera,  he  said  that  she  should  have  her  wish. 

23 


THE    DISCOVERY 


That  night,  on  reaching  home,  he  found  his  wife  prettily 
dressed,  her  eyes  shining,  a  flower  in  her  hair.  She  re 
minded  him  of  the  way  she  had  looked  when  they  were 
first  married.  During  the  early  part  of  the  meal  there 
was  some  embarrassment  between  them.  Then  they  forgot 
it  and  were  happy. 

THOUGH  THEY  BOTH  AGREED  that  the  comic  opera  wasn't 
particularly  good,  they  said  that  they  had  enjoyed  it. 
Afterward  they  went  out  to  a  restaurant  and  had  a  little 
supper.  As  they  walked  home  under  the  stars  she  told 
him  that  she  had  been  happy  all  day  long.  He  smiled  and 
he  was  tempted  to  tell  her  about  his  discovery.  But  he 
was  afraid  she  would  laugh. 

The  man  made  a  resolution  that  he  would  never  forget 
life  consisted  of  one  day.  If  he  could  only  keep  it,  the 
moment  would  come  when  he  could  tell  her.  Together 
they  could  work  to  make  the  day  perfect. 


THE  OTHER  SELF 

WE  all  know  that  other  self. 
Way  back  in  childhood  I  first  met  the  other 
self  that  lives  in  me.     You  doubtless  can  recall 
your  earliest  meeting  with  the  other  self  that  lives  in  you. 

As  I  remember  my  other  self  when  first  I  became  aware 
of  him  he  was  as  old  as  he  is  now.  In  all  the  years  he  has 
not  changed. 

He  must  always  have  been  old. 

He  knew  so  many  things  I  did  not  know.  At  the  very 
moment  when  I  began  to  realize  myself  as  a  responsible 
being  he  spoke  to  me.  He  told  me  many  things  I  did  not 
believe.  The  reason  was  that  I  did  not  wish  to  believe 
them.  Some  of  those  things  he  tells  me  now.  And  though 
I  say  to  myself  that  I  believe  them  and  though  I  try  to  tell 
them  to  other  people,  I  find  myself  acting  as  if  I  did  not 
believe. 

Even  now  I  do  not  wish  to  believe  many  of  these  things. 

He  looks  on  calmly,  patiently. 

Sometimes  I  think  that  he  despises  me.  Sometimes  I 
think  he  feels  only  pity. 

I  LONG  TO  MEET  my  other  self  face  to  face  and  to  look 
into  his  eyes.  But  whenever  I  try  he  eludes  me. 

There  are  moments  when  I  think  I  can  detect  a  faint 
smile  on  his  lips. 

But  about  that  smile  I  am  not  sure. 

It  is  only  when  I  am  absorbed  in  other  things  that  I  feel 
his  presence  and  catch  an  occasional  glimpse  of  him.  The 
moment  I  pay  heed  to  him  he  fades  away. 

Whenever  I  turn  to  the  things  he  disapproves  he  sud 
denly  appears,  grave,  watchful,  speaking  his  warning  in 
a  low  voice,  or  silently.  And  whenever  he  speaks,  in 
silence  or  in  words,  there  is  no  mistaking  his  meaning. 

1    25 


THE    OTHER    SELF 

How  WELL  I  REMEMBER  the  first  time  he  spoke  directly 
to  me. 

I  was  lying  on  the  floor,  a  child,  screaming  and  kicking. 

He  said:  "You  are  foolish  to  behave  in  this  way.  You 
are  only  making  yourself  unhappy." 

Instantly  I  stopped.  I  lay  on  the  floor  and  I  looked  up 
at  the  ceiling. 

Then  a  sharp  voice  said,  a  voice  very  different  from 
that  gentle  appeal:  uNow  you  better  look  out.  If  you 
begin  again  you'll  get  a  good,  sound  whipping." 

Instantly  I  was  tempted  to  break  out  into  screaming  and 
kicking.  But  that  gentle  presence  was  looking  at  me.  Be 
fore  it  I  was  ashamed. 

For  a  long  time  I  lay  there  without  moving.  Then  I  fell 
asleep. 

SUCH  INCIDENTS  occurred  often.  Always  they  caused  me 
shame  before  the  other  self. 

Once  the  other  self  said:  "If  you  keep  on  behaving 
in  this  way  you  will  grow  worse.  You  will  hate  everyone 
around  you.  You  will  make  yourself  more  and  more 
wretched." 

"Well,  why  don't  they  let  me  alone?"  I  said,  wishing 
to  argue. 

"All  children  have  to  go  through  those  trials.  They 
will  do  you  good  if  you  meet  them  in  the  right  way.  They 
will  prepare  you  for  the  trials  that  are  to  come." 

I  feel  a  little  frightened.     "What  trials?" 

"The  trials  that  teach  people  how  to  live.  Now  is  the 
time  to  learn  the  first  lesson." 

I  whispered:    "What  is  that?" 

"The  lesson  of  controlling  yourself." 

I  was  terrified  by  the  difficulty.  "Oh,  how  am  I  to 
learn?" 

"By  practicing  every  day,  by  forming  the  habit  of 
control." 

26 


THE    OTHER    SELF 

"Will  you  help  me?" 

But  now  my  other  self  was  gone. 

MANY  TIMES  my  other  self  came.  He  saw  me  do  many 
things  that  I  felt  sorry  for,  even  while  I  was  doing  them. 
But  as  I  grew  older  I  feared  him  less  and  less.  At  last 
I  grew  bold  in  his  presence. 

"I  don't  believe  in  you,"  I  once  said  to  him,  with  a 
laugh,  and  I  turned  away  to  do  as  I  willed  and,  as  I 
thought,  to  be  happy. 

He  followed  me,  silently,  without  resentment. 

For  days  he  did  not  leave  me. 

Finally  I  gave  up. 

At  that  instant  I  realized  that  I  had  been  secretly  mis 
erable  the  whole  time — all  on  account  of  him. 

I  turned  to  tell  him  I  was  sorry.  But  he  was  there 
no  longer. 

THEN  THERE  WAS  the  painful  time  when  I  decided  to 
write  something  he  disapproved.  The  moment  I  conceived 
the  idea  he  stood  at  my  side.  He  said:  "Don't." 

Now  I  was  angry. 

"Why  not?" 

"It  is  not  a  true  idea." 

"But  it  is  the  kind  of  idea  people  like.  They  will  wish 
to  read  about  it." 

"No  matter." 

"And  I  wish  to  use  it." 

There  was  no  reply. 

"I  am  going  to  use  it." 

"Your  work  will  be  wasted." 

"I  shall  try  hard  to  make  it  beautiful." 

"What  is  false  cannot  be  made  beautiful." 

But  I  was  obstinate.  "You  will  see  if  I  can't  make  it 
beautiful,"  I  said  with  ridiculous  pride.  And  I  went  to 
my  desk. 

Those  calm  eyes  were  on  me. 

27 


THE    OTHER    SELF 

ALL  THROUGH  the  months  that  followed,  while  I  sat  at 
the  desk,  those  eyes  never  left  me. 

One  day,  greatly  discouraged,  I  started  to  put  the  sheets 
in  the  drawer. 

"Burn  them!"  said  the  voice. 

Again  I  rebelled. 

"It  is  the  only  way  for  you  to  get  back  your  peace  of 
mind." 

Then  I  had  the  most  ignoble  of  all  feelings,  pity  for 
myself. 

"I've  been  miserable  for  months." 

As  if  my  other  self  had  not  known ! 

"Why  keep  yourself  miserable?" 

Reluctantly  I  went  to  the  fireplace.  With  an  effort  I 
dropped  the  sheets  into  the  flames. 

When  they  had  disappeared  I  had  a  wonderful  elation. 
I  felt  like  laughing. 

"Oh!"  I  said,  as  if  I  had  escaped  from  danger. 

For  a  long  time  I  stood  motionless.  Why  had  I  not 
heeded  my  other  self  in  the  first  place?  Should  I  never 
learn  to  heed? 

LATELY  I  HAVE  BEEN  WONDERING  where  he  goes  when  he 
disappears  from  my  consciousness. 

Is  he  always  there,  far  in  the  depths,  among  the  ele 
mental  forces? 

Do  I  destroy  his  peace  when  my  thoughts  turn  to  evil  ? 
Do  I  draw  him  away  from  Nirvana? 

And  when  he  seems  to  disappear  does  he  in  fact  establish 
a  closer  union  with  me? 

It  is  at  times  of  temptation  that  I  feel  his  presence 
most  strongly. 

Yes,  it  must  be  that  at  those  times  he  comes  up  to 
help  me. 

It  is  plainly  his  desire  to  give  me  the  peace  that  he  knows 
so  well,  that  must  be  part  of  himself. 

28 


THE    OTHER    SELF 

For  when  I  obey  him  I  am  wonderfully  relieved.  I  feel 
harmonious  with  all  life.  Instead  of  being  two,  I  am  one. 

WHAT  THEN  does  it  mean,  this  struggle  within  every  one 
of  us,  creating  this  strange  division,  this  duality? 

Perhaps  it  means  that  we  are  preparing  to  unite  our 
selves  with  that  other  self  for  all  time  in  a  peace  that 
transcends  evil,  in  a  harmony  that  is  part  of  the  harmony 
of  the  universe. 


29 


WHO  COMMITTED  THE  MURDER? 

I,N  a  great  prison  a  young  man  was  recently  executed 
for  murdering  his  sweetheart.     The  newspapers  de 
scribed  the  agony  of  his  old  father  and  mother.     The 
young  man  was  execrated.      Several  of  the  newspapers 
called  him  a  monster. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  not  wholly  to  blame. 
He  may  have  had  a  vague  consciousness  of  the  wrong 
that  was  done  him,  for  they  said  he  walked  to  the  scaffold 
with  bewilderment  in  his  eyes,  as  if  wondering  what  had 
brought  him  there. 

THE  PATH  of  the  murderer  began  to  be  blazed  soon  after 
birth.  The  first  sounds  that  he  recognized  were  of  his 
father  and  mother  quarreling. 

Those  sounds  gave  him  his  start. 

With  great  rapidity  he  learned  from  what  he  heard  and 
saw,  according  to  the  habit  of  nature. 

Each  day  he  saw  and  heard  his  father  and  mother 
resenting  each  other  and  resisting. 

As  he  grew  older  the  slightest  provocation  would  drive 
him  into  fury. 

His  father  used  to  say:  "You  get  your  disposition  from 
your  mother." 

His  mother  used  to  say:  "You  are  just  like  your 
father." 

When  the  parents  overheard  each  other  speaking  in  this 
way  they  would  quarrel  again. 

And  the  child,  looking  on,  despised  them  both  and  did 
exactly  as  they  did. 

Meanwhile,  he  was  marching  to  his  goal. 

WHEN  THE  CHILD  became  a  man  he  had  his  father  and 
mother  in  subjection. 

30 


WHO    COMMITTED    THE    MURDER? 

They  were  both  afraid  of  him.  And  yet  they  loved 
him  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 

The  more  violent  he  grew  the  more  they  loved  him  and 
the  more  they  were  afraid. 

There  were  times  when  they  would  not  dare  go  into  his 
presence  for  fear  of  his  wrath. 

Already  he  was  well  on  his  way  toward  the  goal. 

THE  DAY  CAME  when  the  young  man  fell  in  love. 

The  father  and  mother,  in  spite  of  their  own  experience 
of  love,  each  thought:  "Now  he  will  change.  He  will 
grow  kind." 

For  a  time  he  did  grow  kind,  even  to  them. 

Before  his  sweetheart  he  was  especially  careful  to  con 
ceal  his  weakness. 

He  tried  to  make  her  think  that  he  was  kind  in  his 
nature. 

But  once  she  chanced  to  offend  him. 

He  broke  into  a  paroxysm  of  rage. 

She  looked  at  him  in  terror,  as  if  she  had  made  a  fearful 
discovery. 

After  that  time  she  avoided  him. 

The  goal  was  almost  in  sight. 

PERSISTENTLY  the  young  man  strove  to  win  his  sweetheart 
back. 

She  would  not  yield. 

At  last,  when  she  was  alone,  he  forced  his  way  into  her 
presence. 

He  pleaded  with  her. 

She  listened  in  silence,  shaking  her  head. 

He  tried  threats. 

She  raised  her  head  proudly,  to  show  that  she  was  not 
afraid. 

She  became  defiant. 

She  spoke  taunting  words. 

31 


WHO    COMMITTED    THE    MURDER? 

Then  the  last  obstacle  in  the  path  first  blazed  so  many 
years  before  was  burned  away  in  the  fire  of  anger. 
The  young  man  had  reached  his  goal. 
He  seized  the  nearest  weapon  and  struck  the  blow. 

No  ONE  TRIED  to  find  the  first  cause  of  the  murder,  to 
determine  the  real  guilt,  to  discover  who  had  started  the 
young  man  in  the  direction  of  his  goal. 

The  father  and  mother,  bowed  in  grief  and  shame,  did 
not  suspect. 


THE  WIFE  OF  THE  PROPHET 

THERE  was  a  man  that  had  high  aspirations.  He 
married  a  woman  whose  character  seemed  like  his 
own.  They  looked  forward  to  a  long  life  of  use 
fulness  together. 

For  several  years  they  were  happy,  giving  each  other 
the  consideration  born  of  sympathy,  knowing  the  joy  of 
service  as  they  worked  side  by  side. 

Then  the  man  began  to  change.  He  saw  that  his 
aspirations  were  old-fashioned.  He  developed  others  that 
he  considered  higher.  Gradually  he  won  the  notice  of  the 
world. 

Men  felt  that  a  new  leader  had  come,  a  prophet,  herald 
ing  a  great  era. 

Meanwhile,  the  wife  was  content  with  the  old  way.  In 
the  new  way  she  saw  no  beauty,  no  truth. 

At  first  the  man  was  amused  by  the  loyalty  of  his  wife 
to  the  old  way.  He  tried  to  lead  her  to  his  views.  He 
had  no  doubt  that  he  should  succeed. 

To  his  surprise,  he  found  that  her  views  were  fixed. 
After  a  long  interval  it  became  plain  to  him  that  she  could 
not  change.  And  yet  he  longed  to  change  her.  He 
persisted  in  his  efforts. 

His  persistence  only  made  his  wife  the  stronger. 

For  she  loved  the  old  ideals.  They  had  become  part  of 
her  being. 

THE  MAN  GRIEVED  over  the  inability  of  his  wife  to  receive 
the  new  truth.  He  spoke  of  her  in  the  kindest  way, 
however. 

Nevertheless,  his  friends  blamed  her.  They  said  that 
she  was  not  fit  to  be  the  wife  of  such  a  man  and  that  she 
was  keeping  him  back.  The  man  himself  they  pitied.  To 

33 


THE  WIFE  OF  THE  PROPHET 

one  another  they  said  it  would  be  better  if  the  two  were 
to  separate. 

But  the  man  refused  to  consider  such  a  plan.  He  declared 
that  he  loved  his  wife  not  less  for  her  obstinacy,  but  more. 
Besides,  divorce  would  hurt  him  in  his  public  career.  There 
was  only  one  thing  for  him  to  do,  he  explained,  to  bear  his 
burden. 

Incidentally,  he  did  what  he  could  to  help  his  wife.  But 
as  the  years  passed  he  found  that  the  new  truth  was 
crowding  her  out  and  he  could  share  his  thoughts  with  her 
less  and  less. 

Nevertheless,  he  remained  a  conscientious  husband. 

MEANWHILE,  the  wife  went  on,  all  the  more  faithfully 
following  the  old  ideals.  The  new  ideals  she  tried  hard 
to  understand.  They  seemed  to  her  strange,  fantastic, 
unreal,  impossible.  She  wondered  how  her  husband  could 
have  become  so  different  from  the  man  she  had  married. 
And  yet  she  loved  him  just  the  same.  And  just  as  faith 
fully  she  longed  to  serve  him.  But  her  fidelity  did  not 
falter,  nor  her  faith  in  him,  nor  the  hope  that  some  day 
he  would  be  to  her  as  he  had  been. 

THE  TIME  CAME  when  the  man  was  recognized  by  the 
world  as  a  great  figure.  His  name  was  a  household  word. 
People  loved  him  and  honored  him.  They  also  pitied  him. 
They  pitied  him  because  he  was  so  sad,  because  he  had  so 
disappointing  a  wife,  a  companion  so  unworthy. 

Occasionally  in  the  public  press  the  man  was  commis 
erated.  There  were  those  who  commiserated  him  to  his 
face. 

At  such  times  his  sadness  would  deepen.  Invariably  he 
would  speak  of  his  wife  in  the  kindest  way,  as  if  she  were 
worthy  of  being  his  mate,  as  if  she  were  as  good  as  he 
was  himself. 

Often  he  said  that  she  was  not  to  blame.    She  was  doing 

34 


THE  WIFE  OF  THE  PROPHET 

the  best  she  could.  Then  he  would  add:  "She's  a  good 
woman.  She's  a  good  woman.  Some  day  she  may  see 
the  light." 

Always  he  was  careful  to  treat  her  with  gentle  kindness, 
as  one  might  treat  a  wayward  child  that  one  loved. 

This  kindness  she  meekly  accepted. 

In  her  presence  he  would  express  ideas  that  he  knew 
she  did  not  agree  with  so  that  she  might  have  the  oppor 
tunity  to  profit. 

She  would  listen  intently  and  she  would  make  no  reply. 

Her  silence  became  to  him  one  of  the  greatest  of  his 
burdens. 

But  this  burden,  too,  he  tried  to  bear  with  patience. 

WHEN  THE  MAN  DIED  the  world  burst  into  acclaim.  They 
compared  him  with  the  prophets  of  old. 

But  the  world  felt  no  sympathy  with  the  wife. 

Nevertheless,  at  the  funeral,  the  wife  was  given  the 
position  of  chief  mourner. 

People  said  that  she  walked  with  an  air  of  bewilderment, 
as  if  wondering  what  it  all  meant  and  why  she  was 
concerned. 

But  one  observer,  a  man  who  had  strange  ideas  about 
life,  said  that  she  walked  like  one  with  a  halo  about  her 
head  and  that  her  eyes  shone  like  the  eyes  of  a  martyr. 


35 


THE  SPRING 

A  MAN  had  a  beautiful  garden.     He  loved  to  roam 
there  and  to  dream.     One  day,  as  he  stood  among 
the  flowers,  he  saw  a  little  spring  bubbling  out  of 
the  ground.    He  was  astonished.    He  knelt  and  tasted  the 
water.     He  found  it  so  pure  and  sweet  that  he  took  some 
of  it  in  a  cup  to  the  members  of  his  family.     They  all 
said  it  was  delicious  and  they  offered  congratulations  and 
praise.  They  seemed  to  think  that  in  some  way  he  deserved 
credit. 

Each  day  the  man  would  go  to  the  spring  and  draw 
water  for  those  he  loved. 

Soon  the  fame  of  the  water  spread.  To  drink  it  people 
would  come  from  afar. 

AT  FIRST  the  man  was  happy.  He  gave  freely.  And  the 
more  he  gave  the  larger  grew  the  spring. 

Soon,  however,  so  many  people  came  to  drink  the  water 
that  the  man  became  afraid.  It  might  give  out.  It  ought 
to  be  used  sparingly.  In  future  it  should  be  safeguarded. 

The  very  next  day  the  man  noticed  that  the  spring  did 
not  flow  so  freely.  He  resolved  that  he  would  tax  those 
that  came  to  drink.  As  long  as  the  stream  lasted  he  must 
secure  what  profit  he  could. 

To  the  world  the  man  announced  the  new  plan.  Many 
people  expressed  surprise  and  disappointment.  Many 
others  declared  that  the  man  was  right  and  added,  that, 
in  his  place,  they  should  do  the  same  thing. 

For  a  brief  time  the  man  made  great  profit.  But  people 
noticed  that  the  water  was  not  so  good  now.  It  had  an 
unpleasant  taste  and  it  did  not  bring  health. 

A  few  said  that  the  man  had  deceived  them.  They 
believed  that  the  water  had  never  been  good. 

36 


THE    SPRING 

The  man,  however,  paid  no  heed.  All  he  cared  for  now 
was  profit.  Each  day  he  would  watch  the  spring.  To  his 
consternation  it  was  steadily  growing  thinner.  One  morn 
ing  he  found  that  it  had  disappeared. 

For  a  long  time  the  man  grieved.  He  no  longer  enjoyed 
his  garden.  Those  near  to  him  and  dear  ceased  to  give 
him  comfort.  He  lost  the  savor  of  life.  Occasionally  he 
would  look  at  the  place  where  the  spring  had  once  flowed 
and  his  heart  would  be  filled  with  grief. 

He  felt  sorry  that  he  had  ever  exacted  money  for  the 
water.  "What  right  had  I  to  barter  God's  bounteous 
gift?"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  have  been  punished." 

One  day,  in  a  moment  of  profound  despair,  when  he 
glanced  at  the  spot,  he  saw  drops  trickling  through  the 
earth. 

With  a  cry  of  joy  he  threw  himself  on  the  ground  and 
tasted  the  water.  It  was  as  pure  as  it  had  ever  been,  and 
it  was  sweeter. 

THE  MAN  ran  to  the  house  to  search  for  a  cup.  When  he 
had  filled  it  he  offered  it  to  his  family.  As  soon  as  they 
tasted  the  water  they  were  overjoyed.  They  confirmed 
his  belief  that  it  had  grown  sweeter. 

To  everyone  that  came  the  man  would  offer  a  cup  of 
the  water.  He  did  not  think  of  profit.  And  as  he  watched 
the  spring  he  saw  that  it  was  growing  larger. 

Soon  people  from  afar  began  to  come  again.  When 
some  of  them  offered  money  the  man  shook  his  head. 
They  looked  surprised  and  they  gave  him  their  blessing 
and  the  man  noticed  that  when  they  went  away,  taking 
water  with  them,  the  spring  would  flow  more  abundantly. 
After  a  few  months  it  gushed  from  the  earth,  joyously, 
exultingly,  as  if  from  an  inexhaustible  source.  The  more 
the  man  drew  from  it  the  sweeter  grew  the  water.  All 
over  the  world  ran  the  fame  of  its  health-giving  properties. 

People  wondered  how  the  man  could  be  so  prodigal. 

37 


THE    SPRING 

Some  of  them  urged  him  to  make  a  charge  for  the  water 
as  he  had  done  before.  They  told  him  that  he  might 
become  the  richest  man  in  the  world. 

He  merely  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "Am  I  not  rich 
enough  now?"  he  asked.  "Is  not  the  inexhaustible  source 
in  my  keeping?" 

They  wondered  what  he  meant.  But  when  he  tried  to 
explain  they  could  not  understand. 


THE  MOUNTAIN 

AT  the  base  of  a  mountain  dwelt  a  man. 
It  was  fertile  and  grassy  and  it  sustained  many 
other  men  like  himself.     They  lived  as  brothers. 
They    loved    one    another.      They   worked    together    in 
harmony. 

Presently  the  man  began  to  develop  great  ambitions. 
He  declared  that  he  intended  to  climb  the  mountain  and 
gather  the  rare  flowers  that  grew  on  the  highest  slopes. 
He  started  out. 
Some  of  the  others  followed. 

Most  of  the  others,  however,  shook  their  heads  sadly 
and  stayed  behind. 

For  those  who  stayed  behind  the  man  expressed  scorn. 

As  THE  MAN  CLIMED,  those  with  him  followed  as  best 
they  could. 

Some  quickly  lost  courage. 

Others  persisted  with  shortening  breath. 

Occasionally  one  of  these  would  climb  beside  the  man, 
greatly  to  the  man's  annoyance.  If  he  did  not  soon  fall  back 
the  man  would  turn  and  force  him  back.  If  he  resisted 
the  man  would  hurl  him  down  the  mountain. 

One  succeeded  not  only  in  reaching  but  in  swiftly  passing 
the  man. 

Then  followed  a  struggle. 

With  a  mighty  effort  the  man  overtook  his  rival.  They 
grappled  and  fought. 

For  a  time  it  looked  as  if  the  man  might  encounter  his 
first  defeat. 

But  he  put  forth  all  his  strength  and  crushed  his  rival  in 
his  embrace. 

The  others  could  hear  the  crunching  of  the  bones. 

After  that  incident  no  one  tried  to  go  past  the  man  or 
even  to  keep  near  him. 

39 


THE    MOUNTAIN 

MEANWHILE  the  climb  grew  harder. 

Those  behind  the  man  looked  up  and  saw  him  mounting, 
mounting.  They  hated  him.  And  they  hated  one  another. 

One  by  one  they  would  give  up  and  either  stay  where 
they  were,  stranded,  hopeless,  or  they  would  go  wearily 
back  to  the  place  where  they  had  started. 

When  the  man  had  outdistanced  them  all  he  stopped 
and  looked  down. 

He  saw  his  former  companions  on  the  mountain  slope, 
like  specks.  He  laughed,  rejoicing  in  their  defeat  and  in 
his  own  superiority. 

And  way  down  at  the  base  of  the  mountain  he  could 
faintly  discern  the  hamlet  where  he  had  once  been  happy. 

HE  WONDERED  how  he  could  ever  have  been  happy  there. 

He  wondered  how  he  could  ever  have  regarded  those 
people  as  his  equals,  how  he  could  ever  have  endured  them. 

He  assured  himself  that  he  had  always  known  he  was 
their  superior. 

They  probably  knew  it  themselves  and  wondered  why 
he  had  not  started  before. 

He  wished  now  that  he  had  started  before.  Bitterly  he 
blamed  himself  for  wasting  those  years  when  he  fancied 
he  was  happy. 

Most  of  all,  he  blamed  himself  for  the  time  he  had 
wasted  on  those  people. 

Then  he  looked  up  at  the  top  of  the  mountain. 

THE  HARDEST  CLIMB  was  before  him.  He  was  at  the  edge 
of  the  snow  and  ice. 

He  set  his  jaws  and  threw  back  his  shoulders. 

He  had  a  fearful  struggle.  Again  and  again  he  slipped 
on  the  ice  and  fell.  Several  times  he  was  caught  in  the 
snow  drifts. 

His  feet  were  sore.    His  hands  bled.    His  body  ached. 

40 


THE    MOUNTAIN 

But  he  had  no  mercy  on  himself,  just  as  he  had  had  no 
mercy  on  others. 

THERE  WERE  DAYS  when  it  seemed  as  if  the  man  made  no 
progress. 

On  other  days  he  could  not  even  see  the  top. 

During  these  days  he  nearly  lost  heart. 

Then  suddenly,  the  top  would  be  enveloped  in  cold  sun 
shine.  It  would  flash  like  a  great  diamond.  He  would 
feel  as  if  he  could  stretch  out  his  arms  and  grasp  it. 

He  would  be  inspired  with  new  strength. 

When  he  reached  within  a  few  yards  of  the  top  it  seemed 
as  if  he  must  pay  for  his  success  with  his  life.  But  he  did 
not  care.  Success  was  worth  the  price. 

So  he  made  a  terrific  spurt.  He  slipped  and  fell.  He 
rose.  Again  he  slipped  and  fell. 

But  he  kept  advancing,  slowly,  steadily. 

At  last  he  reached  over  the  top  of  the  mountain.  There 
he  lay  on  his  stomach,  gasping,  with  his  arms  stretched  out 
before  him  on  the  snow. 

FOR  A  LONG  TIME  he  could  not  think. 

He  kept  panting  like  an  animal.  Gradually  his  heart 
beat  less  wildly.  He  turned  over  on  his  back. 

He  began  to  feel  somewhat  rested.  After  all,  he  was  not 
going  to  die.  He  would  live  to  enjoy  his  success. 

Finally  he  sat  up.  With  an  effort  he  stood  erect.  He 
looked  around. 

Above  he  could  see  only  clouds.  Below  he  could  see 
only  clouds. 

He  was  completely  shut  in. 

Suddenly  he  felt  an  intolerable  loneliness.  He  longed 
to  cry  out  for  help. 

But  who  could  hear? 

Besides,  who  was  there  that  would  help  him?  Who 
would  wish  to  hear  him? 

Certainly  none  of  the  old  companions  at  the  base  of  the 


THE    MOUNTAIN 

mountain  he  had  so  gayly  left,  nor  those  he  had  abandoned 
on  the  slope. 

Then  he  thought  of  God. 

The  mountain  top  he  had  striven  so  hard  to  climb  to 
must  be  near  the  Throne  of  God. 

It  must  be  nearer  than  any  point  a  human  being  had 
ever  reached  before. 

He  raised  his  arms  and  he  cried  aloud  to  God  in  his 
loneliness  and  agony. 

But  there  came  no  answer  from  the  clouds. 

HE  WONDERED  if  he  could  have  been  mistaken  in  thinking 
that  God  lived  on  high,  among  the  clouds. 

Then  he  remembered  a  saying  he  had  heard  as  a  child : 
"The  spirit  of  God  dwelleth  in  the  human  heart." 

But  he  knew  that,  during  his  struggle  to  climb  the 
mountain,  he  had  cast  out  God  from  his  own  heart  to 
lighten  his  burden. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  reach  the  top 
if  he  had  been  obliged  to  carry  God  along,  too. 

He  didn't  dare  to  look  into  his  heart  for  fear  of  what 
he  should  see  there. 

He  thought  of  his  comrades  at  the  base  of  the  mountain 
and  of  those  strewn  along  the  mountain  side. 

Perhaps  God  was  in  their  hearts. 

Surely,  he  reflected,  God  must  be  in  the  hearts  of  those 
who  remained  at  home,  the  peaceful  ones,  the  lovers  of 
their  kind,  the  doers  of  His  will. 

But  he  had  cast  them  out  of  his  heart,  too.  He  had 
despised  them. 

And  again  he  lay  on  his  stomach  and  he  stretched  out 
his  hands. 

"Oh,  my  brothers,  my  brothers,"  he  cried.  "Help  me! 
Help  me!" 

The  winds  caught  up  his  words  in  derision.  They 
howled  around  him. 

42 


THE    MOUNTAIN 

He  looked  about  in  horror.  He  could  scarcely  believe 
that  he  had  really  attained  his  dream  of  years. 

"Surely,"  he  thought,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands, 
"surely  this  place  cannot  be  the  top  of  the  mountain.  It 
must  be  Hell." 

And  in  his  anguish  he  did  not  even  think  of  the  flowers 
he  had  come  to  gather. 


43 


THE  RUNAWAYS 

THEY  were  two  runaways,  driven  while  still  children 
from  what  they  called  home  by  neglect  and  abuse 
and  by  the  longing  to  be  free.    In  each  other  they 
found  companionship.     One  enemy  they  had  in  common, 
the  police.     In  escaping  arrest  as  vagrants  they  displayed 
precocious  ingenuity.     Together  they  led  an  exciting  life, 
devoted  mainly  to  petty  crime. 

ONE  NIGHT  they  planned  an  especially  daring  adventure. 
A  house,  unoccupied  for  several  weeks,  they  would  enter 
and  rob.  They  agreed  to  meet  nearby  in  the  early  evening. 

On  the  way,  one  of  them,  while  crossing  the  street,  was 
run  down  by  a  carriage  and  seriously  hurt.  A  woman  in 
the  carriage  took  him  to  a  hospital.  There  he  was  placed 
in  a  clean,  warm  bed  and  cared  for.  The  other,  after 
waiting  for  a  long  time,  resolved  to  do  the  robbery  alone. 
He  was  caught  and  sent  to  a  reformatory. 

In  this  way  the  two  were  separated. 

FOR  SEVERAL  YEARS  the  boy  sent  to  the  reformantory 
lived  in  a  world  of  vice.  The  evil  he  knew  he  spread 
among  the  others.  The  evil  the  others  knew  he  acquired. 
By  the  time  of  his  release  he  was  hardened.  The 
next  day  he  resumed  the  old  ways.  Within  a  few 
months  he  was  in  prison.  On  returning  to  the  world 
he  went  straight  back  to  crime.  The  only  happy 
times  were  when  he  was  drunk.  Then  he  could  laugh 
at  life  and  sing.  Gradually  his  face  turned  yellow; 
his  teeth  grew  blackened  and  broken;  his  shoulders 
stooped;  his  hair  showed  patches  of  gray. 

Passers-by,  familiar  with  prisoners,  recognized  him  for 
what  he  was. 

His  walk  was  shuffling.    His  eyes  were  furtive. 

44 


THE    RUNAWAYS 

About  him  seemed  to  hang  the  atmosphere  of  the  prison. 
THE  BOY  knocked  down  by  the  carriage  recovered.  The 
woman  that  had  taken  him  to  the  hospital  gave  him  some 
work  to  do  in  her  house.  She  also  sent  him  to  school.  She 
made  him  feel  that  someone  was  interested  in  him.  At 
first  he  was  astonished  and  suspicious.  His  luck  seemed 
too  good  to  last.  But  while  he  had  it  he  resolved  to  be 
happy. 

Often  he  would  compare  his  situation  with  what  it  had 
been.  Where  once  he  had  been  hungry  and  cold,  he  was 
now  well  fed.  Where  he  had  been  scolded  and  cursed, 
he  was  treated  with  kindness.  He  seemed  to  be  living  in 
another  world.  Perhaps  he'd  wake  up  and  find  he  had 
been  asleep. 

But  he  did  not  wake  up.  Instead,  he  forgot.  It  was 
only  at  long  intervals  that  he  thought  of  the  old  life.  Then 
it  seemed  unreal.  He  was  interested  in  so  many  things 
now,  in  study,  in  friends,  in  work  for  the  woman  that  had 
grown  to  be  like  a  mother.  Some  day  he  should  go  to 
college. 

Then  the  whole  world  would  open  before  him,  the  beau 
tiful  world  of  opportunity. 

THIRTY  YEARS  LATER  they  met  in  the  street,  those  two. 
One  was  walking  beside  a  woman  somewhat  younger  than 
himself,  and  two  children.  He  was  handsomely  dressed, 
erect,  bright-eyed  and  alert.  The  other,  slinking  up, 
showed  a  face  yellow  and  lined,  the  mouth  twisted,  the 
chest  hollow,  the  eyes  sunken  and  bloodshot. 

They  looked  at  each  other. 

The  sot  held  out  his  hand  and  mumbled. 

The  man  drew  from  his  pocket  some  change,  passed  it 
over  quietly,  and  turned  away,  as  if  embarrassed. 

The  woman  protested.  "He  will  spend  it  in  drink. 
See,  he  is  heading  for  that  saloon  now.  What  a  dreadful 
looking  object." 

45 


THE    RUNAWAYS 

"I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  have  done  it,"  he  said.  "But 
I  didn't  have  the  heart  to  refuse." 

One  of  the  children  looked  up  inquiringly.  "He  was  a 
bad  man,  wasn't  he,  father?" 

The  father  did  not  reply. 

They  walked  on  rapidly,  eager  to  reach  home. 


THE  CRITIC 

A  MAN   surveyed  the  world  with  stern  eyes.     He 
saw  much  to  disapprove  and  dislike.     So  he  criti 
cised    severely.      Most    of    all    he    criticised    his 
fellow-men. 

To  those  near  him  he  became  known  as  a  remarkably 
able  critic. 

Presently  the  world  heard  of  the  criticisms.  It  applauded 
the  man. 

Everyone  thought  that  the  rest  of  the  world  was  being 
criticised.  In  the  criticism  no  one  included  himself. 

The  time  came  when  the  man  was  recognized  as  a  great 
figure,  the  most  powerful  of  living  critics. 

He  gloried  in  his  success.  He  went  on  criticising,  fear 
lessly,  brilliantly.  And  the  more  he  criticised  the  more 
he  found  to  criticise. 

SUDDENLY  a  sickness  fell  upon  the  man.  He  longed  to 
die,  to  escape  into  another  world,  where  conditions  would 
be  different,  where  men  would  be  stripped  of  their  folly 
and  would  know  the  truth. 

But  he  could  not  die.  It  would  be  cowardly  for  him  to 
take  his  own  life.  Men  would  pity  him  and  say  that  he 
was  weak. 

He  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  being  considered 
weak  and  of  being  pitied,  he  who  was  the  strongest  of 
living  men,  as  well  as  the  clearest-sighted  and  the  most 
fearless. 

He  must  live  in  order  to  teach  men  to  be  like  himself. 

GRADUALLY  the  man  became  a  figure  of  gloom,  with 
stooping  shoulders  and  an  expression  in  his  eyes  and  in 
his  mouth  of  bitterness  and  hate. 

47 


THE    CRITIC 

Those  that  saw  him  in  his  daily  passing  and  repassing 
noticed  that  he  was  showing  his  age.  And  yet  he  was  not 
so  old  in  years.  The  follies  of  the  world,  it  began  to  be 
said,  were  weighing  him  down. 

Vague  reports  were  circulated  that  he  was  not  happy 
at  home,  that  he  was  disappointed  in  his  children.  He 
had  expected  them  to  follow  in  his  path,  to  accept  his  ideas, 
to  take  up  the  noble  work  of  criticism  that  he  had  so 
steadfastly  maintained. 

But  they  all  entered  into  the  very  follies  that  he  had 
warned  the  world  against.  Eagerly  they  joined  the  multi 
tude  of  the  ignorant  and  the  senseless. 

WHEN  OLD  AGE  came  the  man  was  left  alone.  His  wife 
was  dead.  His  children  had  deserted  him. 

The  world  alone  remained  faithfully  still  delighting  in 
his  criticisms,  still  giving  him  honor. 

He  lived  in  a  fine  big  house,  stored  with  the  things 
he  had  tried  to  teach  people  to  prize,  books  and  treasures 
of  art.  It  used  to  be  said  that  this  house  was  a  monument 
of  good  taste. 

And  yet  in  all  his  rewards  he  had  no  comfort. 

From  room  to  room  he  wandered  like  a  ghost. 

Reading  his  books  would  often  give  him  the  sense  of 
dust  and  ashes  in  his  mouth. 

Looking  at  his  pictures  and  his  other  treasures  was  like 
looking  at  emblems  of  death. 

Even  the  applause  of  the  world  ceased  to  be  music  in 
his  ears. 

Did  he  not  know  that  it  was  the  shrieking  of  fools? 

As  DEATH  APPROACHED  the  man  had  a  moment  of  exult 
ation.  At  last  he  should  escape. 

Then  a  strange  question  entered  his  mind :  What  should 
he  escape  from? 

He  should  escape  from  life  with  all  its  folly  and  misery. 


THE    CklTlC 

And  where  should  he  go  ?    To  a  better  world  ? 

But  now  that  he  was  really  going,  he  did  not  feel  so 
much  confidence  in  that  other  world. 

What  reason  did  he  have  to  think  that  conditions  there 
would  be  better? 

Of  one  thing  he  was  convinced :  he  should  be  the  same. 

Then  other  men  would  be  the  same.  And  toward  other 
men  he  should  feel  the  same  hate.  He  should  feel  it  even 
more  strongly  than  he  had  felt  it  through  life.  For  all 
his  life  he  had  spent  in  practising  hate. 

Then  he  realized  that  he  had  become  hate. 

He  had  made  the  world  reflect  himself. 

And  in  this  moment  of  perfect  vision  he  saw  himself  as 
he  was. 

He  shivered  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  "Oh, 
there  is  no  other  world  for  me,"  he  said.  "I  must  come 
back  and  learn  humility." 

They  found  him  with  his  eyes  wide  open,  staring,  as 
if  in  terror,  at  the  world  he  had  so  long  despised. 

They  could  not  know  that  in  the  moment  of  death  he 
had  for  the  first  time  seen  himself. 


49 


THE  REVEALER 

THERE   was   a   man   that   caught  the   ear  of  the 
multitude.    He  said  strange  things. 
The   multitude   called  the  man   a   seer   and   a 
prophet.     They  listened  with  awe. 

When  they  perceived  he  cared  nothing  for  honor  they 
gave  him  more  and  more  honor. 

He  tried  to  escape  into  the  mountains.  He  built  a  log 
cabin  where  he  could  be  alone  and  think. 

Even  there  they  pursued  him,  individuals,  delegations, 
hordes. 

Always  they  made  this  appeal:     "Master,  tell  us  the 
secret  of  your  wisdom  so  that  we,  too,  may  become  wise." 
Always  the  man  made  this  reply:     "I  have  looked  into 
my  soul." 

THE  REPORT  of  this  saying  made  a  profound  impression 
on  the  multitude. 

They  cried:  "See  what  a  modest  man  he  is.  He  does 
not  know  that  he  is  the  Anointed  of  God  and  speaks 
through  the  Divine  Grace." 

No  one  paid  any  real  heed  to  the  words. 

No  one  even  thought  of  doing  as  the  wise  man  said 
he  had  done,  of  looking  into  his  soul. 

THE  TIME  CAME  when  the  man  felt  age  pressing  upon  him. 

He  determined  to  write  his  last  book.  He  would  explain 
at  length  what  he  meant  by  saying  that  he  had  looked  into 
his  soul.  He  would  tell  what  he  had  found  there.  And 
the  book,  he  resolved,  should  be  given  to  the  world  after 
his  death. 

So  he  labored  daily,  fearing  that  at  any  moment,  before 
he  could  finish  the  task,  he  might  be  overtaken  by  death. 

50 


THE    REVEALER 

And  when,  at  last,  he  reached  the  end,  he  stretched  out 
both  hands  and  said:  "I  am  ready,  Lord." 

He  lay  down  and  he  heard  Death  coming. 

He  smiled  peacefully  and  he  crossed  his  arms  and  he 
did  not  stir  again. 

THE  NEXT  DAY  they  found  him. 

They  said:  "He  has  died  as  he  would  have  wished 
to  die." 

They  carried  his  body  into  the  city.  They  gave  it  a 
great  funeral,  pursuing  the  man,  even  after  death,  with 
the  honor  he  had  despised. 

And  all  over  the  world  men  rose  up  in  high  places  and, 
in  complicated  language,  they  sought  to  explain  his  simple 
message. 

ON  THE  TABLE  of  the  log  cabin  they  found  the  book.  They 
read  the  words,  written  in  a  tremulous  hand:  "To  be 
published  after  my  death." 

Reverently  they  looked  over  the  pages. 

Then  they  were  shocked,  all  save  one. 

But  for  this  one  they  would  have  suppressed  the  book. 
Some  of  them  even  tried  to  burn  it  so  that  every  chance 
might  be  destroyed  of  its  ever  reaching  the  world. 

That  one  man  stood  out  heroically:  "It  is  his  greatest 
message,"  he  said.  "It  explains  everything.  It  will  save 
mankind." 

THE  BOOK  created  a  sensation.  In  its  pages  the  multitude 
saw  exposed  the  sins  on  their  own  souls,  the  sins  they  had 
committed  and  the  sins  they  had  longed  to  commit,  but 
had  been  kept  from  committing  by  fear  or  by  lack  of 
opportunity. 

Those  who  loved  the  man  for  the  inspiration  and  the 
comfort  he  had  given  them,  the  few,  were  moved  to  tears. 
They  knew  how  he  had  suffered. 

51 


THE    REVEALER 


Others,  of  greater  number,  who  admired  him  because 
he  was  so  superior,  were  aghast.  They  saw  how  he  had 
sinned. 

Still  others,  the  vast  majority,  the  pretenders,  the  hypo 
crites,  who  honored  him  because  he  was  such  a  power, 
were  angry.  They  believed  he  had  cheated  them.  He 
had  done  what  they  had  been  doing  all  their  lives,  only 
more  successfully,  with  the  applause  of  the  world. 

In  one  voice  they  denounced  him.  They  stained  his 
name  with  obloquy.  They  said  the  book  was  not  fit  to 
be  read.  They  had  it  cast  out  of  the  public  places. 

And  the  book  that  had  been  sent  to  save  mankind 
became  a  shame  and  a  reproach. 

But  the  few  looked  into  their  own  souls. 


THE  LABORERS 

THE   laborers   of    a    great    city    found   themselves 
drawn  together  by  the  tie  of  suffering.     For  years 
they  had  been  underpaid.     They  had  seen  their 
wives  and  children  languish.    They  had  been  driven  closer 
and  closer  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice.     Many  had  gone 
over  and  perished.     Now  they  resolved  that,  no  matter 
what  happened,  they  would  not  work  again  till  their  em 
ployers  agreed  to  give  them  higher  wages. 

When  they  made  their  appeal  to  the  employers  it  was 
scornfully  refused. 

Then  they  called  a  strike. 

THE  STRIKE  lasted  nearly  six  months.  Thousands  died. 
Thousands  of  others  walked  about  like  ghosts. 

At  last  the  employers  yielded. 

The  laborers  felt  that  the  victory  had  been  worth  the 
price.  Joyously  they  returned  to  their  tasks. 

The  wheels  of  industry  hummed  a  great  song,  the  song 
of  labor,  of  prosperity,  of  good  will. 

For  the  next  few  months  the  employers  were  watchful. 
During  the  strike  they  had  sustained  fearful  losses.  They 
must  make  up.  There  was  only  one  way.  Gradually  they 
would  increase  prices,  so  gradually  that  the  change  would 
scarcely  be  noticed.  In  a  few  years  they  would  not  only 
retrieve  the  losses,  but,  with  the  new  prices  firmly  estab 
lished,  they  would  have  vastly  greater  profits  than  they 
had  ever  earned  before. 

After  all,  for  them  the  strike  had  been  a  good  thing. 
Why  had  they  been  so  foolish  as  to  mind?  How  easy  it 
was  to  turn  defeat  into  victory. 

Meanwhile  labor  went  on  humming  its  song. 

DURING  THE  NEXT  YEAR  there  was  a  slight  increase  in 

53 


THE    LABORERS 

the  cost  of  manufactured  goods.  But  the  prices  were 
cheerfully  paid.  Money  was  plentiful. 

After  this  increase  came  other  kinds  of  increase,  in  rents 
and  in  the  price  of  meat  and  vegetables  and  clothes. 

Nevertheless,  labor,  in  that  great  city,  went  on  hum 
ming.  There  was  general  eagerness  to  work  now.  For 
the  increased  wages  had  attracted  an  army  of  laborers 
from  all  over  the  country. 

Workers  had  to  look  sharp. 

Those  who  had  fought  the  battle  of  the  strike  began  to 
be  replaced  by  the  recruits.  They  looked  on  appalled, 
wondering  what  had  become  of  their  victory.  Some  of 
them,  more  daring,  agitated  for  another  strike. 

But  what  was  there  to  strike  about? 

Were  not  the  wages  as  high  as  any  wages  in  the  country? 

No  wonder  the  voices  of  discontent  were  cried  down. 
No  wonder  the  disturbers  were  put  to  shame. 

The  employers  took  a  high  moral  tone.  They  explained 
the  prosperity  of  their  city  by  pointing  to  their  wage  scale. 
They  said  that  the  only  way  to  treat  labor  was  to  give  it 
a  living  wage.  Occasionally  one  of  them  would  smile  and 
wink.  But  for  the  most  part  they  were  very  serious.  They 
had  succeeded  in  convincing  even  themselves. 

IT  TOOK  THE  LABORERS  a  long  time  to  realize.  The  high 
wages  they  had  secured  with  their  blood  were  high  only 
in  name.  In  reality  they  were  low,  even  lower  than  they 
had  been  before.  Besides,  many  that  had  made  the  great 
sacrifices  to  secure  the  high  wages  were  getting  no  wages 
at  all. 

The  laborers  looked  at  one  another  in  bewilderment. 
"Our  blessing  is  a  curse,"  they  said.  What  are  we 
to  do?" 

Then  a  man  stepped  out  from  their  ranks,  a  great  hulk 
ing  fellow  with  a  huge  round  head.  He  looked  at  his 
comrades  with  eyes  that  flashed  anger  and  scorn. 

54 


THE    LABORERS 

"Don't  you  know,"  he  cried,  uthat  there's  no  such  thing 
as  high  wages?  The  moment  they  give  us  an  increase  they 
conspire  to  take  it  away.  They  are  merely  deluding  us, 
treating  us  like  the  fools  we  are.  So  long  as  we  let  them 
regulate  prices  they  can  exploit  us  and  rob  us  and  keep  us 
in  their  power.  Can't  you  see  there  is  only  one  thing  for 
us  to  do?" 

The  laborers  had  been  listening  with  resentment  in  their 
faces;  but  they  were  curious.  "What  is  it?"  one  of  them 
asked  in  a  surly  tone. 

uWe  must  take  the  whole  industry  of  the  world  into 
our  own  hands.  We  must  stop  this  gambling  in  the  things 
that  sustain  human  life.  We  keep  the  world  going.  All 
we  need  is  to  stand  together." 

They  shook  their  heads  and  turned  away.  They  were 
disappointed.  They  called  the  man  a  visionary.  One  of 
them  arose  and  made  an  impassioned  speech  ending  with 
these  words:  "We  want  more  wages.  And  after  that  we 
want  more  wages.  And  after  that  we  want  more  and  more 
and  more  wages.  The  higher  they  put  the  prices  on  us 
the  more  wages  we  shall  demand  and  still  more  and  more 
and  more!" 

The  audience  burst  into  wild  applause  and  cheers. 

THE  NEWS  of  this  scene  was  reported  to  the  employers. 
Some  of  them  shook  their  heads  very  gravely  and  said  they 
feared  they  were  going  to  have  more  trouble.  Others 
merely  laughed. 

"Let  them  go  ahead  and  start  another  strike,"  said  one, 
known  for  his  cynical  humor.  "I  should  like  to  have 
another  excuse  for  raising  prices.  Besides,  I  want  to  take 
a  few  months  off  for  a  trip  to  Europe." 


55 


THE  MODEL  PRISON 

A  GREAT   State   developed  leaders  with   advanced 
theories.      Some    of    them    regarded    prisons    as 
iniquitous.     They  worked  desperately  for  reform. 
Finally,  the  people  grew  so  tired  of  the  agitation  that  they 
agreed  to  let  the  leaders  try  an  experiment.    They  set  aside 
a  vast  tract  of  land  in  a  remote  part  of  the  State  and  they 
turned  it  over  to  the  leaders,  with  permission  to  take  charge 
of  the  prisoners  and  to  see  what  could  be  done. 

IN  A  SHORT  TIME  all  the  prisoners  in  the  State  were  living 
on  the  land.  They  had  a  good  deal  of  freedom.  They 
were  not  shut  up  in  cells.  They  wore  no  stripes.  They 
were  simply  expected  to  work  a  certain  number  of  hours 
a  day.  At  the  end  of  this  time  they  were  free  to  roam  as 
they  pleased,  provided,  of  course,  they  did  not  leave  the 
reservation.  An  attempt  to  escape  resulted  in  their  being 
forced  to  do  longer  hours  of  work  and  to  perform  the 
severest  and  the  most  hateful  tasks. 

IN  A  YEAR  the  new  community  was  well  established,  with 
houses  and  factories  and  schools,  all  built  by  the  prisoners. 
Each  prisoner  was  required  to  learn  a  craft  so  that,  on 
leaving  prison,  he  should  have  a  means  of  livelihood.  A 
certain  number  of  hours  a  week  each  prisoner  was  obliged 
to  devote  to  some  kind  of  study.  The  teachers  consisted 
both  of  well-equipped  women  and  men  from  the  outside 
world  and  of  the  more  accomplished  prisoners. 

PRESENTLY  it  was  discovered  that  there  was  only  one 
serious  hardship  in  this  new  community:  the  prisoners 
longed  for  the  companionship  of  their  families.  At  first 
the  suggestion  was  ridiculed  that  the  families  be  allowed 
to  join  them.  Nevertheless  the  experiment  was  tried. 

56 


THE    MODEL    PRISON 

Instead  of  doing  harm,  it  did  good.  Those  who  were  not 
prisoners,  unless  they  were  too  young,  were  given  work. 
The  children  were  sent  to  school. 

As  a  result  of  such  activity  the  community  became  ex 
ceedingly  productive.  It  not  only  paid  for  itself,  it  made 
a  large  profit  as  well.  In  this  profit  the  prisoners  shared. 
But  they  were  not  allowed  to  keep  the  money  for  them 
selves.  Where  they  had  families  it  was  given  to  the  fam 
ilies.  In  those  cases  where  there  were  no  dependents  it 
was  kept  for  the  prisoners  till  they  should  leave. 

AFTER  A  FEW  YEARS  the  whole  country  became  aware  of 
the  experiment.  It  was  so  successful  that  other  States 
began  to  imitate  it. 

Then  a  fearful  scandal  broke  out. 

The  cause  was  voiced  by  a  multitude  of  people  in  the 
State.  Each  of  the  model  prisons,  they  declared,  was 
sending  into  the  world  highly  trained  able  men  who  were 
successfully  competing  with  those  who  had  never  been 
prisoners.  The  result  was  that  many  innocent  workers 
were  driven  out  of  employment.  Such  a  situation  was  a 
disgrace.  If  it  were  not  ended  each  State  would  develop 
an  aristocracy  of  labor  consisting  of  prisoners,  a  ridiculous 
contradiction.  There  would  be  a  repetition  of  what  had 
happened  in  the  convict  colonies. 

THE  PROTEST  was  echoed  and  re-echoed  throughout  the 
States.  It  threatened  to  destroy  the  new  work.  It  terrified 
the  leaders.  They  fought  desperately  against  it;  but  they 
were  beaten.  It  was  decided  that  each  State  should  go 
back  to  the  old  way  and  punish  prisoners  as  they  should  be 
punished.  As  the  old  prisons  had  been  turned  into  factories 
or  torn  down,  plans  were  made  for  the  building  of  new 
prisons,  with  small  cells  and  iron  gratings,  rising  tier  on 
tier. 

But  just  as  these  plans  were  about  t9  be.  put  into  opera- 

57 


THE    MODEL    PRISON 

tion  one  of  the  leaders  among  the  reactionaries  made  a 
distressing  discovery.  The  change  would  result  in  enor 
mous  expense  to  the  States.  Instead  of  profit  at  the  end 
of  each  year,  there  would  be  loss.  Taxes  would  go  up. 
The  voters  would  become  resentful. 

The  leader  communicated  his  discovery  to  his  associates. 
They  were  appalled.  They  saw  themselves  ruined.  They 
wondered  what  could  be  done.  In  their  plight  they  made 
a  study  of  the  whole  situation.  They  found  that  the  new 
prison  system  was  not  really  a  prison  system  at  all.  It 
was  society  living  in  the  right  way.  The  prisoners  of  the 
world  consisted  of  the  members  of  society,  shut  up  in  their 
prejudices.  Each  of  the  new  communities,  instead  of  being 
the  foe  of  society,  was  the  friend  that  could  lead  men  out 
of  their  cells  into  the  free  world. 

THE  DISCOVERY  brought  together  the  reactionaries  and 
the  leaders  of  the  advance  movement.  They  realized  that, 
at  heart,  they  had  been  working  for  the  same  purpose. 
But  the  methods  of  the  reactionaries  led  in  the  wrong 
direction.  Now  all  men  could  see  that  there  was  nothing 
to  be  gained  by  weakening  and  degrading  human  beings. 
Profit  lay  in  giving  men  strength  and  self-respect  and 
courage  and  hope.  Instead  of  enslaving  men,  society  must 
make  them  free.  First,  it  must  provide  universal  oppor 
tunities  for  developing  health  of  body  and  of  mind  and  of 
soul. 

With  a  will  the  work  was  started. 

AFTER  A  FEW  YEARS  the  slums  disappeared,  those  hatch 
eries  of  crime.  In  their  place  rose  comfortable  houses, 
with  spaces  between  and  with  many  windows  for  sunshine 
and  air.  In  every  city  great  playgrounds  were  made  where 
young  people  could  have  recreation  and  enjoyment.  Then, 
too,  there  were  noble  parks  for  the  whole  community. 
Schools  and  colleges  multiplied,  for  students  of  all  ages. 

58 


THE    MODEL    PRISON 

The  joys  of  learning  were  not  only  for  youth,  but  for  the 
old  and  for  the  middle-aged  as  well. 

It  was  discovered  that  the  more  the  world  spent  for  the 
people  the  more  the  people  gave  in  return. 

Where  loss  might  have  been  expected  there  was  gain. 

From  the  model  prison  society  had  learned  the  way  to 
reap  the  golden  harvest. 


59 


BEFORE  THE  THRONE 

THERE  was  a  man  held  a  great  place  in  the  com 
munity. 
He  was  an  exemplary  husband  and  father,  cor 
rect  in  his  business  affairs  and  in  his  private  life. 

Inwardly,  however,  he  chafed  at  the  monotony  of  his 
days. 

Before  him,  like  a  procession,  passed  the  temptations  of 
the  world. 

To  many  he  longed  to  yield. 

But  he  did  not  dare. 

He  thought  of  those  that  yielded  and  were  detected 
and  punished. 

He  dreaded  being  punished,  being  classed  by  the  world 
among  them,  the  dishonored,  the  disgraced. 

Each  day  of  his  life  he  knew  the  fear  of  shame. 

It  was  a  continual  threat,  a  menace. 

He  thought  of  the  temptations,  however,  fondly,  pas 
sionately. 

In  them  his  imagination  reveled. 

Meanwhile  he  gave  no  outward  sign. 

Painfully,    unfalteringly,    with    secret    resentment,    he 
walked  in  the  path  of  righteousness. 

When  he  died  people  praised  his  character. 

IN  THE  SAME  COMMUNITY  there  was  a  man  whose  life  was 
a  scandal. 

People  spoke  of  him  with  contempt. 

He  himself  knew  that  his  deeds  were  a  reproach. 

He  often  suffered  remorse. 

Always  he  longed  to  do  better,  to  lead  a  good  life. 

But  every  time  he  tried  he  failed. 

Yet  he  would  keep  trying. 

60 


BEFORE  THE  THRONE 

Sometimes  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  a  demon  within  were 
driving  him  to  his  doom. 

That  other  man,  the  good  man,  he  thought  of  with 
envy. 

He  longed  to  be  like  the  good  man. 

There  were  moments  when  the  example  of  the  good 
man  was  a  torment  to  him. 

There  were  moments  when  he  despised  himself  so 
utterly  that  he  longed  to  die. 

And  yet  he  felt  that  he  was  unfit  to  die. 

When,  at  last,  the  end  came,  people  said  it  was  a  good 
thing. 

AT  THE  SAME  MOMENT  the  two  men  reached  the  throne 
of  God. 

God  looked  at  them  inquiringly,  his  eyes  shining  with 
pity. 

He  turned  to  the  good  man.    "What  have  you  to  say?" 

"The  good  man  prostrated  himself.  "Let  my  deeds 
speak  for  me,  Lord." 

On  the  face  of  God  there  was  a  patient  smile.  "Deeds 
are  things  of  the  world,"  he  said.  "Here  we  care  only 
for  the  things  of  the  spirit.  Show  me  your  heart." 

The  man  looked  up,  terrified.  "I  always  did  right, 
Lord!" 

Very  gently  God  spoke  again.     "Show  me  your  heart." 

The  man  bared  his  heart,  and  from  it  poured  all  the 
passions  he  had  indulged  there,  all  the  sins  he  had  longed 
to  commit  and  had  kept  imprisoned.  At  sight  of  them  he 
shrank  away,  in  horror  of  himself,  unable  to  endure  the 
light  that  beat  upon  him  from  the  celestial  throne. 

He  ran  to  hide  in  the  darkness. 

GOD  TURNED  to  the  other  man,  the  evil-doer,  who  lay 
prostrate,  his  hands  covering  his  face. 
"Rise,"  God  said. 

61 


BEFORE  THE  THRONE 

The  evil-doer  rose.  He  stood  trembling,  with  downcast 
eyes. 

"What  have  you  to  say?" 

Brokenly  the  man  replied  that  he  had  nothing  to  say. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  offer  me  after  your  long  life  on 
earth?" 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "Lord,  I  have  done  nothing 
but  evil.  I  am  the  lowest  of  your  creatures.  I  do  not 
deserve  even  your  pity." 

"Show  me  your  heart,"  said  God. 

When  the  man  bared  his  heart,  there  burst  forth  all 
the  good  impulses,  all  the  longings  that,  for  so  many 
years,  he  had  vainly  tried  to  realize. 

Before  the  throne  they  heaped  themselves,  a  shining 
mass  of  treasure. 

God  stretched  out  his  arms.  "O,  my  precious  son!" 
he  said. 

And,  amazed  and  bewildered,  the  man  went  toward 
the  celestial  light. 


62 


THE  BEAUTY 

THERE  was  a  woman  gifted  with  wonderful  beauty. 
It  caused  her,  while  she  was  still  hardly  more  than 
a  child,  to  be  admired  and  favored  and  pursued. 
She  illustrated  the  truth  of  the  French  proverb,  "When  a 
girl  is  beautiful  she  is  already  married."    She  was  scarcely 
more  than  a  child  when  the  man  came  who  was  to  make 
her  his  wife. 

IT  WAS  NOT  till  she  had  bound  herself  to  the  man  and 
had  borne  him  a  child  and  had  gone  out  into  the  world 
that  she  realized  the  power  that  lay  in  her  beauty. 

For  a  time  she  gieved  that  she  had  not  known  before, 
that  she  had  not  waked  up. 

In  the  admiration  of  the  world  she  found  a  continual 
delight. 

It  made  her  despise  the  man  who  treated  her  as  if  she 
were  his  own. 

She  longed  to  escape  from  him,  to  be  free  to  use  her 
power,  to  bring  men  to  her  feet  and  to  achieve  a  great 
position,  where  she  might  have  more  and  more  admira 
tion  and  win  the  rewards  that  should  enable  her  to  give 
her  beauty  the  right  setting,  like  a  jewel. 

ONE  DAY  she  weighed  the  present  with  the  future.  She 
was  still  young.  If  she  remained  for  a  few  years  more 
by  her  husband's  side  her  youth  would  be  gone,  the 
richest  bloom  of  her  beauty.  If  she  listened  to  the  voices 
of  the  world  she  should  have  her  heart's  desire. 

She  chose  to  listen  to  the  world. 

By  the  roadside  of  life  she  left  the  man,  broken  and 
disillusioned  and  embittered. 

The  child  she  took  with  her.  For  she  loved  the  child 
as  her  blossom,  the  reflection  of  herself.  But  as  the  pres- 

63 


THE    BEAUTY 

ence  of  the  child  would  interfere  with  the  life  she  longed 
to  lead,  the  life  in  the  great  world,  she  placed  her  in  a 
convent. 

TEN  YEARS  PASSED.  The  woman  found  herself  more  and 
more  widely  acclaimed.  She  became  famous  for  her 
beauty. 

Princes  were  at  her  feet. 

She  herself  lived  like  a  princess. 

The  world  looked  on  and  admired  and  smiled  and 
applauded  and  gossiped. 

The  woman  accepted  the  applause  and  acted  as  if  she 
did  not  hear  the  gossip. 

Those  she  had  known  in  her  youth  she  ignored.  Those 
who  had  loved  her  she  treated  with  contempt.  Some  of 
these  wondered  what  her  punishment  would  be. 

But  there  was  apparently  no  punishment.  The  woman 
seemed  not  merely  successful  but  happy. 

Meanwhile,  her  beauty,  instead  of  waning,  grew  more 
resplendent,  more  exquisite.  When  it  was  reported  that 
she  had  a  daughter  in  a  convent,  rapidly  growing  into 
womanhood,  people  marveled. 

She  herself  seemed  hardly  more  than  a  girl. 

THE  TIME  CAME  when  the  woman  discovered  that  her 
daughter  had  become  a  woman.  She  would  take  the 
girl  home,  to  be  introduced  to  the  great  world.  The  girl's 
presence  by  her  side  would  silence  detraction.  The  girl 
would  be  an  ornament,  too.  For  she  had  grown  to  be  like 
her  mother,  lovely  as  the  morning. 

So  THE  GIRL  went  home  to  live. 

What  a  wonderful  house,  filled  with  costly  things,  with 
great  mirrors  where  the  beauty  of  the  mother  was  daily 
reflected ! 

At  first  she  was  bewildered.     She  had  not  understood 


THE    BEAUTY 

before.  She  had  not  suspected.  Gradually,  she  became 
aware  of  the  life  her  mother  had  led,  of  its  meaning.  At 
first  she  was  shocked;  but  she  loved  her  mother  and  she 
soon  became  accustomed  to  the  life,  to  the  luxury,  the 
gaiety,  the  presence  of  so  many  interesting  people,  the 
rides  in  the  park,  the  admiration  of  the  men. 

Soon  the  admiration  began  to  intoxicate  her.  She  heard 
men  and  women  talk  about  love. 

She  longed  herself  to  love,  to  be  loved.  She  longed  to 
live  intensely,  deeply,  like  those  she  saw  about  her. 

Meanwhile,  the  mother  was  watching  and  wondering, 
and  as  she  thought,  safeguarding. 

One  of  those  men  would  marry  the  child  some  day  and 
take  her  from  all  this  feverish  life  and  make  her  respected, 
the  honored  wife  and  the  mother  of  children. 

But  the  girl  had  no  such  dreams. 

The  first  words  of  love  that  she  heard  thrilled  her. 

The  first  taste  of  wine  gave  her  a  wild  exhilaration. 

The  first  man  who  pressed  her  closely  in  the  dance  drove 
her  into  a  fever  of  madness. 

IN  A  YEAR  the  people  were  talking  less  of  the  mother  than 
of  the  daughter. 

They  were  saying  that  the  daughter  was  following  in 
the  footsteps  of  the  mother. 

And  they  were  also  saying  that  the  daughter  did  not 
have  the  coldness  of  the  mother,  the  calculation. 

For  the  daughter  they  foresaw  dangers  the  mother  had 
escaped. 

Meanwhile,  the  mother  remained  blind.  She  was  too 
close  to  the  daughter  to  see.  And  when  she  did  see  it 
was  too  late.  For  already  the  good  name  of  the  daughter 
had  been  tarnished. 

Then  the  mother  heard  that  some  of  the  old  friends 
were  saying  her  punishment  would  come  through  her 
daughter's  shame. 

«5 


THE  BEAUTY 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  began  to  feel  concern. 
She  resolved  to  keep  her  daughter  closer. 

ONE  DAY  the  mother  was  told  that  the  daughter  had  flown 
with  a  man  who  had  long  been  her  own  admirer. 

The  news  came  while  she  was  having  her  beauty  pre 
pared  for  the  day  and  while  she  was  glancing  over  a 
morning  paper. 

She  sat  up  and  confronted  one  of  the  great  mirrors. 

In  an  instant  all  her  years  had  stamped  themselves  into 
her  face. 


66 


THE  OGRES 

ONCE  a  rich  man  grew  tired  of  hearing  the  saying: 
"Competition  is  the  life  of  trade." 
He  believed  the  saying  was  perfectly  true.     But 
he  also  believed  that  competition  was  the  death  of  profit. 

And  profit  he  considered  the  breath  of  life. 

So  he  called  a  few  friends  together,  rich  men  like 
himself,  and  he  said: 

"Now  we  must  put  a  stop  to  competition." 

They  all  looked  amazed.     Some  of  them  were  shocked. 

It  was  as  if  he  had  said:  "We  must  put  a  stop  to 
religion,  or  to  the  ocean  tides." 

They  began  to  protest.  In  different  phrases  the  rich 
man  was  obliged  to  hear  that  competition  was  the  life  of 
trade.  He  could  hardly  restrain  his  impatience.  He  let 
the  talk  run  on  for  awhile.  Then  he  said,  in  an  impressive 
whisper,  bending  forward  with  both  hands  on  the  desk  so 
that  his  head  might  be  close  to  their  heads:  "Compe 
tition  is  a  mere  superstition." 

He  looked  around  suspiciously,  as  if  afraid  the  clerks  in 
the  outer  office  might  hear. 

The  others  listened  with  awe.  They  couldn't  quite 
follow.  But  they  trusted  him.  They  knew  he  was  deep. 

AFTER  MAKING  SURE  that  no  clerks  were  listening,  the 
rich  man  went  on,  addressing  himself  to  that  circle  of 
excited  heads:  "Competition  can  be  destroyed.  We  can 
destroy  it.  We  can  buy  up  all  the  materials  of  production, 
all  the  things  that  people  must  have  or  think  they  must 
have,  which  is  exactly  the  same  thing.  Then  we  can  reg 
ulate  the  prices  to  suit  ourselves.  The  people  will  be  at 
our  mercy.  It  will  be  life  or  death  with  them." 
He  elaborated  his  plans  like  a  general. 


THE  OGRES 

Hungrily  they  looked  at  one  another. 

"Can't  we  begin  right  away?"  said  one. 

The  rich  man  smiled.  He  had  appealed  to  the  instinct 
that  he  could  always  rely  on  for  response. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  pleasantly.  "But,  of  course,  we 
must  proceed  with  care.  One  thing  at  a  time.  One  thing 
at  a  time!"  he  concluded,  with  his  delightful  good  humor. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  a  little  man,  "that  if  we  can 
only  carry  this  thing  through  we  can  get  everything." 

The  rich  man  patted  him  on  the  back. 

"We'll  leave  them  enough  to  live  on,"  he  said.  "After 
all,  it  is  by  living  that  they  will  keep  us  going.  If  they 
were  all  to  die  the  joke  would  be  on  us." 

They  all  laughed  and  rubbed  their  hands.  They  were 
fine,  pleasant  fellows  when  mingling  with  their  own  kind. 

AT  FIRST  the  rich  man  had  an  amusing  experience.  The 
world's  eagerness  in  selling  out  to  him  appealed  to  his 
sense  of  humor.  And  he  was  enchanted  with  the  applause 
of  the  world.  The  very  people  who  were  contributing  to 
his  magnificent  enterprise  and  to  their  own  undoing  were 
giving  him  more  and  more  honor. 

The  few  that  objected  to  selling  he  quickly  threatened. 
When  any  of  them  resisted  he  crushed  them. 

He  became  known  as  the  Napoleon  of  Organizers. 

And  the  things  that  he  organized  were  living  creatures 
called  Great  Enterprises. 

The  work  went  on  quietly,  rapidly.  The  time  came 
when  it  was  decided  there  must  be  results. 

So  prices  were  raised,  so  slightly  that  the  change  was 
hardly  noticed. 

Soon  they  were  raised  again,  and  again  and  again. 

It  was  wonderful  the  way  it  was  done.  Apparently 
nothing  changed.  The  sun  rose  and  set.  There  were 
marriages,  births,  deaths,  divorces,  all  the  trials  and  joys 
making  human  life. 

68 


THE  OGRES 

The  sharpest  observer  drifting  along  the  street  would 
have  perceived  no  difference. 

A  few  saw.  They  raised  their  voices  in  protest.  Finally 
they  clamored.  They  declared  that  the  world  was  men 
aced  with  strange  and  terrible  presences.  These  Great 
Enterprises  were  really  Ogres.  "See,"  they  said,  "they 
are  surrounding  the  world." 

The  people  looked  up  and  they  saw,  standing  on  the 
edge  of  the  world,  great  monsters,  superbly  dressed,  with 
inscrutable  features  and  faces  coldly  smiling. 

Many  of  the  people  admired  the  monsters. 

A  few  declared  the  monsters  were  beautiful. 

Meanwhile  millions  were  starving;  millions  more  were 
terrified. 

It  looked  as  if  life  might  become  too  expensive  a  luxury 
to  be  sustained,  except  by  the  few. 

And  the  prices  increased  mysteriously,  steadily. 

The  Napoleon  of  Organizers  and  his  friends  sat  back 
in  supreme  content. 

THE  TIME  CAME  when  the  people  grew  nervous  about  the 
presence  of  the  Ogres.  There  they  stood,  ghostlike,  un 
approachable,  with  cold  and  pitiless  eyes. 

In  dismay  the  people  said  to  one  another,  "What  shall 
we  do  with  these  monsters?" 

Some  of  them  cried:  "Let  us  restrain  them."  And 
they  made  feeble  efforts. 

The  world  laughed. 

Even  the  monsters  seemed  amused. 

And  one  great  man  went  about  denouncing  the  Ogres 
and  winning  great  credit  for  courage. 

The  Ogres  kept  smiling  inscrutably. 

One  hopeful  little  man  went  so  far  as  to  impose  a  huge 
fine  on  the  largest  of  the  Ogres. 

The  Ogre  said  nothing.    He  waited. 

The  fine  was  remitted.    It  was  as  if  it  had  never  been. 


THE  OGRES 

MEANWHILE,  the  Ogres  continued  to  draw  on  the  life 
blood  of  the  people.  Even  the  price  on  milk  was  raised, 
the  milk  that  sustained  the  life  of  babes,  the  hope  of  the 
race. 

Through  this  exaction  alone  millions  perished. 

It  was  seeing  the  babes  languish  and  die  around  them 
that  finally  caused  the  multitude  to  rise  in  fury.  As  they 
could  do  nothing  with  the  Ogres  themselves  they  were 
determined  to  kill  the  men  who  had  created  the  Ogres,  the 
Napoleon  of  Organizers  and  the  others  in  his  class. 

It  looked  as  if  the  horrors  of  the  French  Revolution 
were  about  to  be  repeated.  Drained  of  their  blood,  the 
people  longed  for  blood. 

A  great  army  gathered.  They  raised  the  banners  of 
war.  Angry  speakers  incited  them  to  violence.  They 
listened  eagerly,  like  all  people  hearing  their  own  opinions. 

In  the  tumult  no  speaker  could  be  heard.  But  they  were 
all  saying  the  same  thing  and  everyone  knew  what  that 
was. 

PRESENTLY,  HOWEVER,  from  beneath  the  shrill  cries,  came 
a  quiet  voice.  It  was  so  different  from  the  others,  so  much 
clearer,  so  free  from  bitterness  that  the  people  grew 
curious. 

The  other  speakers  stopped.  They  looked  around  to 
discover  the  owner  of  the  voice. 

He  was  a  homely  little  man  in  a  rusty  frock  coat  and 
with  big  spectacles  over  his  eyes. 

Some  of  the  taller  men  lifted  him  on  their  shoulders  so 
that  every  one  might  see  him. 

"Mv  FRIENDS,"  he  began,  "I  know  exactly  how  you  feel. 
I  sympathize.  I  know  there  are  many  among  you  whose 
stomachs  are  empty.  And  I  know  how  foolish  it  is  to 
argue  with  empty  stomachs.  I  don't  wish  to  argue.  I 
merely  wish  to  make  a  little  suggestion  about  the  way  you 

70 


THE  OGRES 

may  secure  what  you  need  and  what  you  ought  to  have." 

He  was  rather  adroit.  He  didn't  begin  by  antagoniz 
ing  them.  He  knew  that  such  a  method  would  destroy 
his  chance  of  being  heard  at  all. 

He  succeeded  in  stimulating  their  curiosity. 

"Go  on!"  they  cried  impatiently.  "Tell  us  first  how 
to  get  food." 

At  this  point  the  man  made  a  blunder.  It  came  near 
wrecking  his  chance  of  being  heard.  "These  Ogres  that 
surround  us,"  he  said,  "are  not  our  enemies.  They  are 
our  friends. 

The  multitude  burst  into  a  roar  of  derision  and  rage. 
For  a  moment  it  looked  as  if  they  might  tear  the  man  to 
pieces. 

But  there  was  something  about  the  calm,  steady  gaze 
from  those  big  glasses  that  caused  the  excitement  to 
subside. 

The  people  waited  for  the  little  man  to  say  something 
more  ridiculous.  Then  they  would  punish. 

"These  Ogres,"  he  went  on,  becoming  somewhat  excited, 
"are  really  you  and  me.  It's  our  life  blood  that  has  made 
them,  our  needs.  They  represent  the  folly  of  humankind. 
We  think  of  them  as  our  enemies  because  we  are  our  own 
enemies.  Don't  you  see?"  he  cried  helplessly,  staring 
through  his  goggles  and  perceiving  with  anguish  that  he 
had  not  made  his  meaning  plain. 

There  were  many  cries  of  resentment,  such  as  "He's 
crazy,"  and  "Throw  him  out." 

But  some  of  the  people  insisted  that  he  should  be  given 
another  chance.  A  few  even  ventured  to  exclaim :  "He's 
right.  He's  telling  us  the  truth." 

! 

"My  FRIENDS,"  the  old  man  resumed,  evidently  deter 
mined  to  make  one  more  effort  to  convey  his  idea,  "the 
whole  trouble  is  due  to  our  own  folly.  We  believed  in 
competition.  We  made  competition  our  God.  Now  com- 


THE  OGRES 

petition  was  the  denial  of  our  brotherhood,  the  refusal  to 
recognize  our  dependence  on  one  another.  It  created  a 
wasteful  and  disorganized  world.  And  the  rich  men  saw 
our  folly.  They  saw  that  the  world  was  ready  to  pay  an 
enormous  price  for  organization.  It  was  suffering  for 
order.  Well,  those  men  have  given  it  to  us.  They  have 
done  for  us  what  we  should  have  done  for  ourselves. 
Isn't  the  price  worth  while?  Isn't  it  just  punishment  for 
the  sin  of  competition  that  denied  our  brotherhood 
and  our  dependence  on  one  another?  Now  let  those  rich 
men  keep  what  they  have  and  let  us  accept  the  lesson 
they  have  given  us.  After  all,  they  are  men  like  our 
selves.  Only  they  are  wiser  than  we  have  been.  God 
directed  them  in  mysterious  ways  to  be  our  scourge  and 
our  guide.  Suppose  we  try  to  do  as  they  have  done. 
Suppose  we  go  back  for  a  year  and  live  as  brothers, 
working  together,  not  for  the  good  of  one  but  for  the 
good  of  all,  accepting  the  wonderful  blessings  of  God  that 
come  from  organization  and  co-operation.  Then  we  shall 
escape  the  horrors  of  a  revolution,  the  fearful  destruction 
of  the  things  we  need  for  our  sustenance  and  the  anguish 
of  the  women  and  children  who  are  dear  to  us." 

The  people  looked  at  one  another.  In  groups  they 
talked  excitedly  over  the  strange  suggestion. 

Some  of  the  men,  the  husbands  and  fathers,  and  most 
of  the  women,  were  in  favor  of  trying  the  experiment. 

Others  were  bitterly  opposed,  the  excitable  young 
fellows. 

When  the  argument  was  at  its  height  and  the  sentiment 
in  favor  of  a  trial  was  plainly  gaining,  someone  looked 
up  and  exclaimed:  "Oh,  see  the  Ogres!" 

To  their  amazement,  the  Ogres  had  gathered  up  their 
long  skirts  and  were  running  into  the  horizon. 


72 


THE  CITY  OF  LABOR 

THERE  was  a  great  city,  standing  near  the  sea.  On 
it  nature  smiled.  It  blossomed  like  a  garden.  The 
richest  fruits  of  the  earth  it  bore  in  abundance. 
It  offered  opportunity  for  achievement  and  service  to  the 
strong.  To  the  weary  and  the  sick  it  provided  a  haven. 

But  a  few  men,  seeing  its  blessings,  resolved  to  secure 
possession.  They  would  force  the  bounty  of  nature  to 
yield  to  them  alone!  It  made  no  difference  how  others 
might  be  deprived.  They  would  reap  the  golden  harvest. 

Cunningly  they  made  their  plans.  After  many  years 
they  had  their  way.  They  saw  their  city  flourishing.  They 
built  magnificent  houses  for  themselves.  They  rode  in 
beautifully  equipped  vehicles.  They  swelled  with  arro 
gance.  For  the  less  fortunate  they  felt  contempt.  Toward 
those  they  had  despoiled  they  openly  showed  hatred  and 
scorn. 

AND  THE  DESPOILED  LOOKED  ON  with  anguish,  seeing 
their  wives  droop  and  sicken,  their  children  grow  up 
stunted  in  mind  and  in  soul,  their  daughters  exposed  to 
temptation  and  dishonor. 

Occasionally  one  of  them  would  become  desperate  and 
commit  a  wild  act.  He  would  be  seized  and  thrown  into 
prison,  and  the  world  would  cry  out  against  him. 

It  was  after  an  incident  of  this  kind  that  the  despoiled 
found  themselves  drawn  together  in  powerful  bonds  of 
sympathy. 

"If  we  do  not  protect  ourselves,"  said  one,  "we  shall 
fall  into  despair." 

Another  said:  "What  can  we  do  to  escape  from  the 
horrors  of  this  accursed  city?" 

After  long  debate  they  made  a  plan.  On  a  certain  day 
they  would  put  it  into  execution.  Meanwhile  they  swore 
one  another  to  silence. 

73 


THE    CITY    OF    LABOR 

WHEN  THE  DAY  CAME,  as  the  whistles  blew,  summoning 
labor  to  its  heavy  tasks,  the  workers  hurried,  not  to  their 
workshops,  but  to  the  center  of  the  city,  their  wives  and 
their  children  following.  Like  great  rivers  they  flowed 
through  the  streets. 

At  a  signal  they  began  to  march. 

The  exploiters,  hearing  the  tramp,  tramp,  looked  in 
amazement  from  the  windows  of  their  fine  houses,  at  the 
youths,  some  lusty,  some  weak;  at  the  girls,  some  beau 
tiful  as  flowers,  others  worn  with  care  and  fatigue;  at  the 
old  women  and  men,  bowed  with  toil  and  privation;  at 
the  big-eyed,  wondering  children,  awed  by  the  strangeness. 

They  thought :  "The  slaves  are  about  to  give  us  some 
new  expression  of  their  enmity."  They  looked  for  means 
of  safeguarding  their  property.  But  there  was  no  one 
that  could  help. 

Those  thev  used  as  their  guardians  were  in  the  pro 
cession. 

They  became  alarmed,  not  knowing  what  might  happen. 

FOR  SEVERAL  HOURS  the  procession  marched,  very  slowly, 
that  the  women  and  children  should  not  be  exhausted. 
At  last  it  reached  a  great  plain,  nearly  surrounded  with 
mountains. 

The  people  sat  on  the  ground.  They  looked  about,  tak 
ing  deep  breaths.  Here  was  the  same  air  they  had 
breathed  in  their  city,  only  purer,  more  inspiring.  And 
here,  on  rich  soil,  the  sun  of  God  was  poring  and  wide 
streams  were  running  to  the  sea. 

In  thankfulness  they  lifted  up  their  hearts. 

Presently,  refreshed  with  food  they  had  brought,  they 
rose  and  began  to  work,  thousands  of  hands,  eagerly, 
joyously,  with  the  sense  of  escape  from  thralldom,  with 
the  exhiliration  of  freedom.  And  before  the  day  was 
done  their  combined  effort  had  started  another  city,  a  city 
that  should  be  their  own,  the  City  of  Labor! 

74 


THE    CITY    OF    LABOR 

LIKE  FIRE  the  news  spread  abroad.  All  over  the  world 
labor  rejoiced,  seeing  the  beginning  of  wonderful  experi 
ment  that  might  save  mankind,  the  dawn  of  hope.  And 
the  word  went  forth  to  laborers  everywhere :  "Beware 
of  the  City  of  Shame.  Set  no  foot  there  on  penalty  of 
everlasting  dishonor." 

At  first  the  despoilers  laughed.  They  said:  "There 
are  plenty  of  slaves  that  will  be  glad  to  take  the  places  of 
those  deserters.  The  world  is  full  of  slaves.  There  are 
so  many  that  each  day  thousands  perish  of  starvation." 

They  advertised  for  laborers,  offering  what  they  con 
sidered  to  be  generous  inducements. 

No  one  responded. 

Meanwhile  the  despoilers  had  to  go  to  work.  From 
all  sides  they  saw  their  property  and  they  saw  themselves 
menaced  with  dust,  with  dirt,  with  rust  and  decay,  with 
all  the  hostile  forces  of  nature.  For  them  the  whole 
machinery  of  living  was  stopped.  When  they  rose  in  the 
morning  they  were  confronted  with  desperation  and  terror. 
No  tables  were  laid  for  them.  No  meals  were  spread. 
There  was  no  fire.  No  food  came  to  the  house.  There 
was  disorder  everywhere. 

During  the  first  day  they  suffered  great  discomfort.  A 
few  sickened  and  died. 

On  the  second  day  their  sufferings  increased. 

It  was  as  if  a  sea  of  trouble  swept  over  them.  They 
could  not  stop  it.  They  could  not  resist  it.  It  would 
carry  them  to  their  doom. 

A  few,  the  valiant,  worked  desperately.  At  the  end  of 
a  few  hours  they  were  exhausted  and  begrimed.  They 
knew  their  city  was  becoming  the  City  of  Death.  So  they 
gathered  what  they  could  take  of  their  possessions  and 
fled.  But  they  could  not  go  far.  There  were  no  trains. 
Only  those  escaped  that  had  sufficient  courage  and  energy 
to  walk. 


75 


THE    CITY    OF    LABOR 

THEN  BEGAN  a  fearful  struggle.  The  despoilers  became 
toilers.  But  they  were  too  few  and  too  inexperienced  to 
resist  the  forces  of  destruction.  In  a  week  they  lost  cour 
age.  Already  their  property  had  depreciated  fearfully 
in  value. 

To  the  City  of  Labor  they  sent  a  delegation.  At  first 
the  laborers  did  not  wish  to  parley.  They  had  been 
deceived  too  often. 

Finally  they  were  persuaded  to  listen. 

"We  will  double  your  wages,"  said  the  leader  of  the 
delegation. 

The  toilers  shook  their  heads. 

After  a  conference  the  delegation  was  ready  with  new 
terms. 

"We  will  give  you  half  our  profits." 

Again  the  toilers  refused. 

For  a  second  time  the  delegation  retired  to  confer. 
When  they  returned  they  said:  "What  is  it  that  you 
want?" 

The  toilers  replied:  "We  want  nothing  from  you. 
We  are  satisfied  as  we  are.  We  are  building  a  city  for 
ourselves  now,  just  as  we  built  a  city  for  you." 

"But  you  aren't  going  to  destroy  us,"  the  leader  of  the 
delegation  cried  in  horror. 

"What  did  you  do  to  us?"  said  the  spokesman  of  the 
toilers.  "When  we  were  at  your  mercy  you  showed  us 
no  mercy." 

In  despair  the  delegation  withdrew.  Soon,  however, 
they  were  back  again.  "If  you  will  return  we  will  give 
you  everything!" 

The  toilers  smiled.     "You  have  nothing  to  give." 

"Have  you  no  pity?"  the  leader  pleaded.  "Even  if 
we  abused  you,  are  we  not  still  your  brothers?" 

That  appeal  stirred  the  toilers.  The  more  they  thought 
of  it  the  stronger  it  became. 


THE    CITY    OF    LABOR 

"What  do  you  wish  us  to  do?"  asked  the  spokesman. 

"Come  back  to  the  city  you  made  and  save  it  from 
destruction." 

For  a  long  time  the  toilers  debated.  Already  thousands 
of  workers  were  coming  from  nearby  cities.  And  thou 
sands  of  others  were  on  their  way  from  afar.  These 
recruits  provided  workers  enough  to  sustain  the  City  of 
Labor.  They  could  themselves  return  to  their  own  city 
and  let  the  world  see  that  they  were  not  controlled  by 
malice.  Besides,  their  return  would  hearten  the  toilers  in 
the  cities  throughout  the  world. 

They  decided  to  go  back. 

The  City  of  Labor  they  turned  over  to  their  brothers. 

SOON  THE  MARCH  BEGAN.  This  time  it  was  not  silent  or 
slow.  It  was  enlivened  with  laughter  and  song.  Even  the 
weak  and  the  old  showed  that  they  felt  new  strength. 

As  they  entered  the  city  they  had  abandoned  they  were 
met  by  their  fellow-citizens,  once  despoilers,  now  toilers. 

As  one  great  family  they  set  to  work,  grappling  with 
the  destructive  forces  of  nature.  Soon  the  wheels  were 
turning  again.  The  dust  and  rust  disappeared.  The 
hum  of  industry  rose  to  the  sky  like  a  song  of  rejoicing. 

And  throughout  the  earth  a  new  spirit  expressed  itself 
in  the  hearts  of  men,  recognizing  the  worth  and  the  dignity 
of  labor  and  compelling  its  just  reward.  The  dispossessed 
became  the  possessors.  The  world  grew  rich  with  ability 
and  talent,  with  skill  and  vigor  developed  from  minds  and 
hearts  and  bodies  that  once  had  languished  in  bondage. 

Where  hate  had  been  there  was  love.  In  place  of  loss 
there  was  gain. 

Meanwhile  the  City  of  Labor  flourished,  reminding  the 
world  of  the  rebirth  of  man. 


77 


THE  PRISONERS 

THERE  was  a  prison,  the  greatest  known  to  men. 
In  its  cells  were  confined  multitudes. 
All  the  prisoners  were  serving  life  sentences. 
About  the  corridors,  in  the  sunshine,  roamed  the  guards 
carrying  rifles. 

At  the  approach  of  these  guards  the  prisoners  would 
shrink  back  in  terror. 

When  the  guards  were  not  near,  however,  the  pris 
oners  would  peer  out  through  the  lattice  in  the  cell  doors 
at  the  beautiful  world,  scenting  the  sweet  air,  catching 
glimpses  of  the  sky  and  the  tops  of  the  distant  mountains. 

At  night  their  ghostly  faces  might  be  seen  gazing  at 
the  stars. 

Sometimes  from  the  cells  rose  cries  of  anguish  and 
despair. 

OFTEN,  both  by  day  and  by  night,  two  guards  would 
enter  a  cell  and  return  with  a  dead  body. 

The  prisoners  in  the  cells  nearby  would  watch  with 
a  deeper  terror  in  their  eyes.  At  any  moment  their  time 
might  come ! 

But  occasionally  one  would  watch  with  envy,  as  if  long 
ing  to  escape  from  the  cell  even  at  the  cost  of  life  itself. 

There  were  those  who  slew  themselves  that  they  might 
escape. 

AT  ALL  TIMES  the  prisoners  were  trying  to  communicate 
with  one  another. 

Desperately  the  guards  strove  to  prevent  such  com 
munication.  But  they  strove  in  vain.  For  mysteriously, 
with  amazing  rapidity,  thoughts  would  go  through  the 
thick  walls,  from  cell  to  cell,  invisible  messengers  of 
sympathy  and  fear. 

78 


THE  PRISONERS 

Merely  for  harboring  these  thoughts  many  of  the 
prisoners  were  terribly  punished. 

And  whenever  the  creators  of  the  thoughts  were  found, 
whenever  they  were  even  suspected,  they  would  be  put  to 
death. 

So  the  prisoners  strove  to  hide  their  thoughts.  Some 
of  them  did  not  even  dare  to  think. 

GRADUALLY,  HOWEVER,  the  prisoners  grew  desperate. 
They  began  to  whisper  through  the  walls  that  they  could 
not  endure  their  state  much  longer.  They  asked  one 
another  if  there  were  not  some  way  of  escape. 

Soon  possible  ways  of  escape  began  to  be  suggested. 
About  these  there  were  many  differences  of  opinion  and 
arguments. 

A  few  proposed  appealing  to  the  hearts  of  the  guards. 
Instantly  this  plan  was  rejected  by  the  vast  majority. 
One  man  declared  the  guards  had  no  heart. 

Others  proposed  that,  at  a  time  to  be  agreed  upon,  a 
desperate  effort  be  made  to  break  down  the  walls.  But 
to  most  of  the  prisoners  it  was  plain  that  the  walls  were 
too  thick  to  be  broken  down.  Besides,  even  if  they  could 
be  broken  down,  in  falling  they  would  crush  the  multitude 
within. 

The  plan  that  found  the  greatest  favor  was  that  a  few 
of  the  prisoners,  the  most  adroit,  should  try  to  make 
friends  with  the  guards  by  offers  of  service  and  by  flattery. 
After  securing  privileges  for  themselves,  enabling  them  to 
leave  their  cells  for  a  time,  they  should  strangle  the  guards, 
seize  the  keys  and  release  the  others. 

This  plan  was  developing  when  one  of  the  prisoners  was 
caught  while  receiving  a  message.  By  torture  he  was 
forced  to  betray  the  plot. 

Then  the  discipline  of  the  whole  prison  grew  more 
severe. 

The  cries  of  despair  were  heard  more  often. 

79 


THE  PRISONERS 

ONE  NIGHT,  when  the  prison  was  apparently  buried  in 
sleep,  from  cell  to  cell  there  ran  a  message,  like  a  thrill. 

It  said:  "I  have  made  the  greatest  discovery  the  world 
has  ever  known.  Listen  closely  and  I  will  tell  it  to  you." 

On  receiving  the  message  most  of  the  prisoners  groaned 
and  turned  in  their  cots.  They  had  been  disappointed  too 
often  to  have  any  faith. 

Those  who  listened  had  no  faith,  either.  They  listened 
merely  because  they  could  not  sleep. 

After  a  long  silence  the  second  message  came. 

Some  of  the  prisoners,  in  spite  of  their  fear  of  the 
guards,  laughed  in  derision.  A  few  were  furious  at  being 
waked  from  their  sleep  by  what  they  believed  to  be  a 
heartless  joke. 

The  message  said:  "Brothers,  God  has  given  us  the 
world.  Let  us  take  possession  of  our  heritage." 

A  few  minutes  later,  as  the  guards  paced  up  and  down 
the  corridors,  rifles  on  their  shoulders,  not  one  of  them 
suspected  a  revoltuion  had  been  started. 

THE  NEXT  NIGHT,  just  before  dawn,  the  electric  thrill  ran 
through  the  prison.  A  few  were  watching  for  it.  The 
others,  angry  at  being  disturbed  again,  tried  not  to  listen. 

The  message  said:  "Give  heed,  my  brothers,  for  I  am 
delivering  unto  you  the  word  of  God!" 

Most  of  them  were  convinced  now  that  the  message 
came  from  one  of  the  many  religious  fanatics  in  the  prison. 

"Give  heed,  for  I  have  learned  the  way  out.  Listen, 
my  brothers,  not  for  your  own  sake  alone,  but  for  the 
sake  of  the  coming  generations.  Save  them  from  sharing 
your  fate  by  opening  the  doors  of  your  cells!" 

From  many  of  the  cells  came  smothered  curses  and 
mutterings  of  rage. 

"If  one  of  you  heed  not,  my  brothers,  escape  is  im 
possible.  Listen  to  the  message  that  will  save  you !  Your 
doors  are  locked  on  the  inside." 

80 


THE  PRISONERS 

In  the  long  silence  there  was  incredulity  and  resentment. 

"With  one  mighty  movement,  all  together,  you  can 
throw  open  the  doors  by  means  of  vibration.  Thus  far 
you  have  failed  because  you  have  not  worked  together. 
Rise  out  of  your  sleep  and  walk  into  the  world.  See,  the 
dawn  is  coming." 

A  few  trembling  rose  and  obeyed.  With  desperation 
they  tore  at  their  doors  till  their  hands  bled. 

But  the  doors  remained  shut.  The  stone  walls  still 
hemmed  them  in. 

Hopeless,  they  sank  on  the  floor. 

From  all  sides  they  could  hear  their  fellow  prisoners 
sleeping. 


81 


THE  INJURY 

FOR  many  years  two  men  worked  together.     They 
were  very  successful.     For  each  other  they  felt  a 
deep  regard.     People  used  to  call  them  "Damon 
and  Pythias." 

One  day  one  of  the  two  friends  conceived  a  project. 
When  he  spoke  of  the  scheme  the  other  friend  eagerly 
agreed,  offering  suggestions  that  would  make  success  sure 
and  more  remunerative. 

For  convenience  it  was  decided  that  the  enterprise  should 
be  conducted  in  the  name  of  the  one  that  had  first  thought 
of  it. 

Soon  it  was  launched. 

As  THE  PROSPERITY  INCREASED  the  one  who  had  con 
ceived  the  idea  thought:  "I  was  a  fool  to  have  told  him 
about  it.  I  should  have  kept  it  to  myself." 

The  more  he  reflected  the  more  he  grieved.  Presently 
he  began  to  feel  injured.  If  he  were  to  take  the  whole 
profit  he  should  have  a  fortune.  And  why  should  he  not 
take  it  all?  Wasn't  the  idea  his? 

He  proceeded  to  think  how  he  could  secure  the  whole 
profit.  He  found  the  way  easy.  As  the  enterprise  was 
in  his  name  he  merely  had  to  keep  whatever  came  in. 

It  was  true  that  he  had  used  money  that  belonged  to 
the  firm,  that  his  friend  had  developed  the  scheme  and  the 
two  shared  everything.  No  matter !  The  money  invested 
he  would  return. 

When  he  reached  this  conclusion  he  felt  almost  honest. 
He  was  also  excited  and  elated. 

And  yet  he  had  a  vague  sense  of  discomfort,  too. 

A  few  days  later  he  broke  the  news  to  his  partner, 
speaking  carelessly,  as  if  it  were  not  news  at  all,  as  if 
all  along  it  had  been  understood  between  them. 

The  partner  grew  angry. 

82 


THE    INJURY 

AFTER  THE  QUARREL  both  felt  injured. 

The  one  that  had  done  the  wrong  withdrew  from 
the  partnership  and  started  a  business  of  his  own.  He 
refused  to  discuss  the  cause  of  the  quarrel.  He  merely 
said  that  his  partner  had  not  treated  him  right.  When 
ever  the  name  of  the  partner  was  mentioned  in  his  presence 
he  would  look  injured. 

He  believed  that  his  old  friend  would  talk  against  him 
in  order  to  injure  him. 

Often  he  would  see  the  townspeople  looking  at  him 
with  suspicion  and  dislike. 

Then  he  would  feel  sure  his  old  friend  had  been  talking 
against  him. 

As  the  years  passed  he  hated  his  old  friend  more  and 
more. 

Occasionally  he  would  hear  of  his  old  friend's  increasing 
prosperity. 

The  reports  would  exasperate  him. 

For  he  was  not  prospering  himself.  In  fact,  he  found 
his  money  going  so  fast  that  he  used  to  look  forward  to 
the  coming  years  with  terror. 

He  believed  that  all  his  bad  luck  resulted  from  "him." 

"He"  was  determined  to  drive  him  out  of  town.  "He" 
was  ruining  his  reputation. 

There  were  moments  when  the  man  longed  to  kill  his 
old  friend.  He  said  to  himself  that  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  understand  such  smallness  of  character  that  made 
anyone  cherish  a  grievance  all  these  years.  Especially 
since  there  had  been  no  cause  for  the  grievance  in  the 
first  place.  He  had  a  right  to  all  that  money. 

THE  DAY  CAME  when  failure  overtook  the  man.     Broken 
in  spirit,  sick  in  body,  he  lay  on  his  bed. 

The  doctors  told  him  he  could  not  live  much  longer. 
"I'm  glad,"  he  said.  "I've  lived  too  long  already." 

83 


THE    INJURY 

They  asked  him  if  he  had  any  last  wishes.  "Only 
one,"  he  said.  He  spoke  the  name  of  his  old  friend. 
"Before  I  die  I  should  like  to  tell  him  something." 

The  doctors  sent  for  the  man.  A  few  hours  later  the 
two  were  looking  at  each  other,  one  white-faced  at  the 
approach  of  death,  the  other  ruddy  with  life. 

"You  have  been  happy,  haven't  you?"  said  the  faint 
voice  from  the  pillow. 

"Yes." 

"Aren't  you  sorry  for  what  you've  done  to  me?" 

The  old  friend  looked  surprised.  He  sat  by  the  bed 
side.  "I  didn't  know  that  I  had  done  anything,"  he  said. 

"You've  ruined  my  reputation,  that's  all.  You've  been 
spreading  stories  about  me  ever  since  we  severed  our 
partnership." 

"But  that  was  more  than  twenty  years  ago.  I  haven't 
mentioned  your  name  more  than  a  half  dozen  times  since, 
except  to  my  wife.  At  first  I  was  angry.  I  didn't  think 
you  had  done  right.  Then  I  became  so  busy  I  put  the 
thing  out  of  my  mind.  I  haven't  thought  of  it  for  more 
than  a  dozen  years.  Now  it  seems  almost  as  if  it  had 
never  happened.  But  I  have  never  talked  against  you. 
I  knew  you  believed  you  were  right." 

"You  knew  I  believed  I  was  in  the  right." 

"Of  course  you  justified  it  to  yourself." 

"But  I  didn't  justify  it  to  myself.  I  didn't  believe  I 
was  in  the  right.  I  only  pretended.  I  knew  I  was  wrong. 
And  the  more  I  thought  about  it  the  more — "  The  white 
face  sank  back  on  the  pillow.  "I  thought  I  hated  you. 
I  guess  what  I  hated  was  only  the  reflection  of  myself." 

The  two  men  clasped  hands.  For  a  long  time  there 
was  silence  in  the  room.  The  face  on  the  pillow  grew 
yellow.  The  cheeks  were  sunken.  The  half-open  eyes 
became  glassy. 

Then  very  slowly  and  with  some  difficulty  the  man 
sitting  at  the  bedside  drew  his  hands  away. 

84 


THE  SILENCES  OF  THE  SOUL 

A  MAN  loved  a  woman.    And  the  woman  loved  the 
man. 
Their  love  seemed  to  them  infinite.     They  felt 
sure  they  should  always  be  happy  together. 

They  were  wonderfully  happy. 

The  woman  busied  herself  about  her  domestic  affairs 
till  her  husband  came  in  the  evening.  The  man  worked 
at  his  daily  task,  looking  forward  to  the  end  of  the  day 
when  he  should  return  home  and  to  her. 

They  would  sit  together  beside  the  lamp,  she  with  her 
sewing,  he  with  a  book  and  a  pipe. 

There  were  long  periods  of  silence  between  them,  of 
beautiful  silence.  Their  happiness  seemed  to  vibrate  in 
the  air. 

The  woman's  head  would  bend  over  her  sewing.  The 
man  would  smoke  and  smoke. 

AFTER  A  TIME  the  woman  began  to  ask  questions. 

First  she  asked  if  he  were  happy. 

He  looked  a  little  surprised  and  he  smiled  good- 
humoredly.  He  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and 
said  that  he  was  very  happy. 

She  asked  if  he  had  ever  been  so  happy  before. 

There  was  an  almost  imperceptible  shadow  on  his  face. 

He  said  that  he  had  never  been  so  happy  before. 

His  tone  showed  that  he  was  puzzled. 

For  a  long  time  she  sewed.  Somehow  the  vibrations  of 
happiness  were  not  quite  so  distinct.  In  a  few  moments 
the  man  rose  and  started  to  leave  the  room.  He  said  he 
was  tired. 

The  woman  sat  alone.     She  sewed  and  sewed. 

THE  NEXT  NIGHT,  as  they  sat  together,  the  man  let  his 
book  rest  in  his  lap.    He  went  on  smoking. 

85 


THE  SILENCES  OF  THE  SOUL 

The  woman  looked  up  quickly  and  said:  "What  ar© 
you  thinking  about?" 

He  took  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth.  "I'm  thinking  of 
you,  dear." 

The  answer  pleased  her.  She  dropped  her  head  over 
her  sewing. 

Whenever  he  stopped  reading  she  would  look  up  and 
say  with  a  smile:  "What  are  you  thinking  about?" 

She  saw  that  the  question  made  him  slightly  uncom 
fortable.  She  wrondered  why. 

Sometimes  he  would  answer  directly.  At  other  times 
he  would  say:  "I'm  not  thinking  of  anything." 

For  a  long  interval  he  kept  his  eyes  on  the  book.  And 
yet  she  noticed  that  he  did  not  turn  the  pages. 

She  was  tempted  to  tell  him,  as  a  joke,  that  he  was 
not  turning  the  pages.  But  she  refrained. 

She  was  ill  at  ease.    The  silence  became  disagreeable. 

She  could  not  feel  the  vibrations  of  happiness  till  she 
listened  intently. 

It  was  comforting  to  find  they  were  there. 

He  looked  up  and  caught  her  eye.  "What  are  you 
thinking  about?"  she  said. 

HE  GREW  to  loathe  that  expression,  "What  are  you 
thinking  about?"  It  made  him  feel  almost  painfully  self- 
conscious. 

He  wished  that  she  would  stop  asking  the  question. 
But  he  didn't  like  to  make  the  request.  It  would  seem 
foolish. 

Often  as  they  sat  together  he  could  feel  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  him. 

And  she  would  notice  that  for  long  intervals  he  did  not 
turn  the  pages.  So  she  began  to  ask  more  questions,  to 
divert  him,  as  she  assured  herself.  He  was  too  tired  to 
read  after  his  work  of  the  day.  It  would  be  pleasanter 
for  him  to  talk. 

86 


THE  SILENCES  OF  THE  SOUL 

Her  questions  were  about  himself  and  his  concerns, 
about  the  details  of  his  life  before  she  knew  him,  about 
his  family,  his  friends,  his  former  sweethearts,  about  his 
feelings. 

He  saw  that  she  had  a  passionate  curiosity  about  his 
feelings. 

After  a  long  time,  he  saw  that  her  curiosity  drove  her 
to  probe  into  the  inner  recesses  of  his  being,  into  the 
depths  of  his  consciousness,  into  the  sacred  places,  where 
he  hardly  dared  intrude  himself,  the  silences  of  his  soul. 

The  discovery  filled  him  with  dismay,  though  he  could 
hardly  have  explained  why. 

ONE  EVENING  she  was  very  gay.  She  tore  the  book  from 
his  hand,  laughing  like  a  child.  She  declared  she  should 
have  him  all  to  herself  for  once.  He  should  not  read 
another  word.  They  were  going  to  have  a  long  chat. 

He  yielded  good-humoredly.  She  sat  on  a  footstool 
beside  him,  resting  her  head  against  his  knee.  "I  love 
cuddling,"  she  said. 

Then  she  asked:  "When  was  the  very  first  moment 
you  knew  you  cared  for  me?" 

He  put  down  his  pipe.  He  could  not  answer  such  a 
question  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth.  He  tried  to  look 
back  and  to  discover  precisely  the  moment  when  he  had 
first  cared.  "I  think  it  was  the  moment,"  he  said,  "when 
our  fingers  touched,  the  night  we  were  walking  away  from 
your  aunt's  house." 

She  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed.  "Oh,  I  remember 
that  moment!" 

She  asked  more  questions.  She  drew  nearer  and  nearer 
the  silences  of  his  soul. 

The  questions  became  harder  and  harder  for  him  to 
answer.  They  were  so  personal,  so  intimate,  they  dealt 
with  feelings  so  delicate  it  seemed  as  if  the  mere  breath 
upon  them  would  be  a  desecration. 

8? 


THE  SILENCES  OF  THE  SOUL 

And  as  she  went  on  he  had  a  strange  feeling.  It  was 
as  if  they  had  changed  places,  as  if  she  were  the  strong 
one  and  he  were  the  weak,  and  as  if  she  were  degrading 
him  as  a  man  might  degrade  a  woman. 

He  felt  for  her  the  aversion  that  the  woman  feels  for 
such  a  man.  He  could  hardly  keep  from  showing  it  in 
his  evasive  replies. 

She  knew  that  she  was  not  pleasing  him. 

Yet  she  went  on. 

She  knew  it  would  be  well  for  her  to  desist. 

Yet  she  went  on. 

At  last,  with  an  expression  of  impatience,  he  said: 
"Now  I  really  must  get  at  this  book." 

She  saw  that  his  face  was  flushed  and  his  eyes  were 
bright. 

She  rose  from  her  seat  and  took  up  her  sewing.  She 
would  go  on  the  next  evening. 

BUT  THE  NEXT  EVENING  she  met  difficulties.  For  some 
reason  she  could  not  understand,  it  was  impossible  for 
her  to  take  that  little  stool  at  his  feet  and  to  rest  her 
head  on  his  knee.  And  it  was  hard  to  go  on  while  they 
sat  opposite  each  other.  Besides,  he  seemed  absorbed  in 
this  particular  book  on  some  deep  subject. 

She  made  occasional  efforts,  however,  usually  in  the 
form  of  joking  references  to  his  absorption. 

Then  he  saw  that  she  was  like  a  child  determined  to 
tear  her  doll  to  pieces  to  find  out  what  was  inside. 

But  she  was  a  child  with  the  will  of  a  woman. 

And  what  she  longed  to  tear  was  made  of  his  tenderest 
sensibilities,  hidden  in  the  silences  of  his  soul. 

There  were  moments  when  he  almost  detested  her. 

There  were  other  moments  when  he  felt  pity. 

There  were  still  other  moments  when  he  was  afraid. 

GRADUALLY,  as  they  sat  together  in  the  evening,  she  felt 
doors  closing  in  her  face,  quietly,  inexorably. 

88 


THE  SILENCES  OF  THE  SOUL 

She  went  on  sewing,  drawing  the  thread  with  nervous 
rapidity. 

He  seemed  not  to  notice. 

He  smoked  and  read. 

Steadily  he  turned  the  pages. 

She  wondered  why  those  intervals  had  ceased  when  he 
did  not  turn  the  pages. 

Not  once  did  he  give  her  a  chance  to  say:  "What  are 
you  thinking  about?" 

The  vibrations  of  happiness  ceased. 

In  their  place  she  could  feel  vibrations  of  pain. 

What  he  felt  he  did  not  betray. 

ONE  NIGHT  she  made  an  effort. 

He  felt  her  will  pitted  against  his. 

She  asked  searching  questions,  leading  into  the  silences 
of  his  soul. 

There  she  should  find  his  real  being. 

If  she  could  only  enter  and  possess  herself  of  him,  he 
would  be  hers  forever. 

He  steeled  himself  against  her,  adroitly  parrying  the 
questions. 

Then  he  realized  that  she  was  a  stranger.  She  had 
always  been  a  stranger.  A  stranger  she  must  always 
be. 

Between  her  questions  there  were  long  intervals  when 
she  seemed  to  gather  breath  and  strength. 

With  every  question  his  answers  grew  more  impertur- 
able.  They  sounded  as  if  they  came  from  a  distance. 

Sometimes  he  would  not  reply  till  long  after  she  had 
spoken.  His  words  would  be  brief,  absent. 

At  last  she  could  not  endure  the  tension.  She  broke  into 
angry  reproaches.  Her  voice  grew  higher  and  higher. 

"You  don't  tell  me  anything  any  more.  You  sit  here 
beside  me  every  evening,  and  yet  you  are  miles  away." 


89 


THE  SILENCES  OF  THE  SOUL 

He  put  down  his  book  and  he  drew  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth.  The  pipe  he  placed  carefully  on  the  table. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  he  asked. 

The  question  infuriated  her.  How  could  she  express 
the  agony  in  her  mind  ? 

She  dashed  out  of  the  room  in  a  passion  of  tears. 

He  sat  and  stared  after  her.  He  did  not  touch  his  book 
or  his  pipe. 

He  said  nothing. 

But  there  was  a  fearful  tumult  in  the  silences  of  his 
soul. 


90 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE 

THERE   was  a   boy  that  loved  stories   of  buried 
treasure.     The  adventures  of  Captain  Kidd  fired 
his  imagination.     He  longed  to  escape  from  the 
monotony  of  his  life  at  home  and  to  follow  an  adventurous 
career  in  seeking  for  the  hidden  gold.    He  had  to  content 
himself,  however,  with  imagining  that  the  treasure  lay  in 
the  earth  about  him.     He  would  dig  and  dig,  with  great 
satisfaction  to  himself  and  greatly  to  the  amusement  of 
those  looking  on.    They  liked  to  see  his  eager  young  face, 
shining  with  excitement,  as  he  told  about  his  adventures. 

As  THE  BOY  GREW  to  a  youth  he  lost  his  interest  in 
buried  treasure.  Instead,  he  became  interested  in  the 
treasures  of  silver  and  gold  and  precious  stones  that  lay 
in  the  earth.  He  used  to  picture  them  there,  waiting  for 
man  to  come  and  secure  possession.  He  resolved,  when 
he  grew  up,  to  be  a  miner.  He  would  go  far  away  to  the 
wilds  and  there  he  would  prospect.  He  glowed  at  the 
thought  of  his  discoveries.  He  would  return  a  rich  man. 
His  treasures  he  would  throw  at  the  feet  of  the  one  he 
loved. 

As  THE  YOUTH  GREW  to  manhood  his  imagination  tired 
of  those  treasures,  too.  It  found  other  treasures  stored 
in  books.  Eagerly  he  would  delve  for  them,  sometimes 
working  far  into  the  night.  He  decided  that  these  were 
the  greatest  treasures  of  all.  And  they  were  inexhaustible. 
The  more  he  took  the  more  he  still  could  take.  The  only 
drawback  was  that  life  would  be  too  short.  Those  that 
knew  him  used  to  marvel  at  his  acquisitions.  They  said 
that  he  gave  promise  of  becoming  one  of  the  most  learned 
men  in  the  world.  At  their  praise  he  only  smiled.  For 
already  he  knew  so  much  that  he  realized  how  little  he 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE 

knew  and  how  much  more  there  was  to  know.  He  wanted 
to  make  others  feel  the  joy  of  acquisition,  too.  But  most 
of  them  turned  a  deaf  ear.  Meanwhile,  he  kept  delving, 
making  trails  where  the  mind  of  man  had  never  before 
entered,  achieving  discoveries,  widening  the  boundaries  of 
human  understanding,  bringing  up  from  their  hiding  places 
rare  treasures  of  knowledge.  Then,  greatly  to  his  aston 
ishment,  he  discovered  that  there  were  treasures  far  more 
precious  than  any  he  had  yet  thought  of,  more  beautiful 
than  silver  and  gold  and  precious  stones,  more  wonderful 
than  knowledge. 

THIS  DISCOVERY  gave  the  man  a  shock.  He  felt  as  if  he 
had  been  wasting  his  time.  He  had  been  living  for  the 
sake  of  acquisition,  for  himself.  So  he  had  shut  himself 
out  of  the  most  precious  treasures.  To  secure  these  he 
went  to  work  with  his  characteristic  energy. 

At  first,  he  could  hardly  believe  his  eyes.  There  they 
were  all  about  him,  treasures  that  any  one  who  looked 
could  see.  He  had  been  blind.  Why  had  his  knowledge 
failed  to  give  him  sight?  He  watched  for  those  who 
realized  these  treasures.  Here  and  there  they  were  to  be 
found.  Nearly  always  they  were  people  he  had  considered 
inferior  to  himself,  ignorant.  He  decided  to  make  friends 
with  them. 

At  first  the  strangers  were  afraid  of  him  and  stood 
apart.  But  when  they  saw  that  he  was  sincere  they  re 
sponded.  It  was  then  that  he  had  his  first  conception  of 
the  extent  of  the  buried  treasure.  It  fired  him  with  the 
desire  to  make  new  discoveries.  He  longed  to  ask  ques 
tions  of  those  that  possessed  the  treasure;  but  he  did  not 
dare;  such  curiosity  would  seem  like  an  intrusion.  Be 
sides,  he  saw  that  the  people  themselves  did  not  under 
stand.  They  only  felt. 

Here  was  a  clue.    He,  too,  must  learn  to  feel. 

So  he  sought  out  those  who  had  the  deepest  sympathy. 

92 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE 

Soon  he  found  himself  among  the  people  whose  very 
existence  he  had  not  been  aware  of,  millions  and  millions, 
swarming  over  the  earth. 

Now  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  knew  the  meaning 
of  the  expression  "the  treasure  of  the  humble." 

PEOPLE  CRITICISED  THE  MAN.  They  said  that  he  was  be 
coming  eccentric  and  wasting  his  great  talent.  They  had 
expected  him  to  have  a  brilliant  career.  Instead,  he  was 
allying  himself  with  the  lowest  forces  in  life.  If  he  heard 
the  criticisms,  he  paid  no  heed.  He  went  about  radiantly, 
with  a  smile  on  his  lips  and  a  light  in  his  eyes. 


93 


THE  EVIL  PASSIONS 

A  GROUP  of  Evil  Passions  floated  in  the  air,  mighty 
figures,  as  old  as  mankind  and  yet  touched  with  a 
kind  of  youth  in  their  hideous  faces.    They  looked 
down  on  the  great  city,  just  beginning  to  stir  with  life. 
Over  the  edge  of  the  bay  majestically  rose  the  sun.     Like 
spires,  tall  ships  lifted  their  masts  toward  the  sky.     From 
a  multitude  of  towers  came  the  clanging  of  bells  and  the 
shrieking  of  whistles. 

"THEY  WILL  BE  COMING  SOON,"  said  Avarice,  with  a 
smile.  "See,  the  anxious  shopkeepers  are  on  the  cars  and 
the  ferry.  They  are  determined  not  to  let  anyone  get 
ahead  of  them.  But  they  are  not  gaining  much.  It  is 
the  men  who  lie  abed  till  nine  o'clock  that  I  am  most  in 
terested  in.  They  have  the  great  appetites.,,  See  that  fine 
house  there,  on  the  avenue?  Someone  is  sleeping  in  the 
front  room  who  will  swallow  a  multitude  of  these  small 
creatures  in  a  minute.  I  will  wait  for  him.  He  has  been 
laying  his  plans  for  a  long  time.  As  soon  as  he  steps  into 
his  automobile  I  will  take  possession  of  him  and  make  him 
do  my  will.  Then  I  will  glut  him  with  joy  and  he  will  be 
my  slave." 

ENVY  NODDED  APPROVINGLY.  "You  couldn't  do  anything 
that  would  help  me  more.  You  know  how  they  long  to 
imitate  him  down  there.  While  you  are  at  work  they  will 
have  their  eyes  on  him.  I  will  enter  their  minds  and,  as 
they  see  him  growing  richer  and  richer,  they  will  writhe." 
They  both  laughed  malignantly.  If  the  eyes  of  the 
swarming  human  beings  below  could  have  looked  up  and 
seen  those  faces  there  would  have  been  consternation  in 
that  city. 


94 


THE  EVIL  PASSIONS 

PRIDE  YAWNED  with  the  consciousness  of  superiority.  *l 
have  a  feeling  that  I  am  going  to  spend  a  profitable  day. 
I  think  I  will  devote  myself  chiefly  to  the  members  of  the 
gentler  sex.  They'll  be  easy  to  work  on.  I  will  make  them 
do  the  most  ridiculous  things  with  the  idea  that  they  are 
exciting  admiration.  And  I  will  make  them  do  many 
things  that  they  won't  really  want  to  do  at  all.  The  wife 
of  that  millionaire,"  Pride  went  on,  with  a  cold  glance  at 
Avarice  and  at  Envy,  "I  will  do  something  for  her.  I  will 
make  her  so  inflated  by  the  success  of  her  husband  that  she 
will  drop  many  of  her  old  friends.  And  she  will  praise 
her  husband  till  he  thinks  he  is  one  of  the  greatest  men  in 
the  world  and  determines  to  destroy  still  more  people. 
Really,"  Pride  concluded,  with  a  curl  of  the  lip,  "you  two 
couldn't  do  anything  without  me." 

"AREN'T  YOU  GOING  to  give  me  any  credit?"  cried  Hate, 
with  a  dark  frown.  "If  I  didn't  help  you,  you'd  find  that 
most  of  your  work  counted  for  nothing.  You  don't  seem 
to  realize  that  sickly  creature,  Love,  is  trying  to  interfere 
with  you  all  the  time.  But  for  me  you  would  have  been 
destroyed  long  ago.  I  am  always  fighting  your  battles." 

Pride  turned  to  Hate  with  a  patronizing  smile.  "My 
friend,  I  appreciate  your  worth." 

Envy  and  Avarice  also  broke  out  with  praise.  They  de 
clared  that  it  was  wonderful  the  way  Hate  worked,  never 
losing  interest,  never  getting  tired,  always  ready  to  leap 
out  and  to  strive  furiously. 

The  more  they  praised,  the  more  ugly  Hate  grew  and 
the  more  malignant.  "If  I  didn't  keep  on  the  watch  all 
the  time,  I  should  be  destroyed  myself.  You  don't  know 
what  a  terrible  conspiracy  there  is  against  me  in  the  uni 
verse.  Some  of  the  very  people  down  there  have  the  im 
pudence  to  think  that  they  can  destroy  me.  But  I  am  just 
as  strong  now  as  I  ever  was." 

"I  like  to  hear  you  talk  like  that,"  said  Pride.    "But  you 

95 


THE  EVIL  PASSIONS 

ought  to  give  us  some  credit,  too.  Just  as  you  help  us,  we 
help  you.  After  all,"  Pride  acknowledged,  with  noble 
condescension,  uyou  and  I  are  related.  We  belong  to  the 
same  family." 

"Bur  HOW  ABOUT  ME?"  shrieked  Anger,  the  pale  face 
lined  and  distorted,  the  eyes  shooting  fire.  "Are  you  so 
foolish  as  to  think  that  anyone  of  you  can  compare  with 
me  for  effectiveness?  You  think  you  can  make  those 
people  down  there  your  slaves.  You're  always  trying. 
But  I  don't  even  have  to  try.  I  just  whisper  to  them  and 
they  do  my  will.  See  them  hurrying?  Don't  they  look 
absorbed?  But  if  I  just  remind  one  of  them  of  something 
disagreeable  I  can  stir  him  up  inside.  It  takes  a  very  re 
markable  character  to  resist  me.  A  lot  of  them  are  just  in 
the  mood.  Some  of  them  are  waiting  for  me  to  come. 
See  that  young  fellow,  crossing  on  the  ferry,  the  giant  with 
big  shoulders  and  with  blood-shot  eyes?  He  has  been 
drinking  for  more  than  a  week.  Yesterday  he  didn't  go 
to  work  at  all.  As  soon  as  I  remind  him  of  something  that 
happened  a  few  days  ago  he  will  long  to  have  a  quarrel 
with  his  foreman.  I  will  put  ideas  into  his  head  about 
what  the  foreman  is  going  to  say.  I  will  make  him  look 
forward  to  a  quarrel.  Then,  as  soon  as  the  foreman 
speaks,  he'll  be  ready.  I  can  do  anything  I  like  with  him 
to-day." 

U!T'S  EXTRAORDINARY,  isn't  it,  what  a  difference  there  is  in 
people?"  said  Lust,  with  small,  glittering  eyes  and  a  thick 
lower  lip  that  sagged  away  from  the  mouth.  "Now  I 
have  to  be  very  careful.  For  that  reason  my  work  is  a 
good  deal  harder  than  any  of  you  can  imagine.  I  have  to 
pick  just  the  right  people." 

Pride  drew  away  with  contempt.  "You?  Your  work 
isn't  work  at  all.  It's  degrading.  But  for  me  human  be 
ings  would  all  abandon  themselves  to  you  and  become 
animals." 


THE  EVIL  PASSIONS 

Lust  broke  into  a  shrill  laugh,  like  a  shriek.  "Did  you 
ever  hear  such  impudence?  How  dare  you  speak  to  me 
like  that?  Your  airs  are  preposterous?  Don't  I  find  you 
wherever  I  go?  You  know  perfectly  well  that  you  often 
prepare  the  way  for  me.  And  I  often  put  you  in  your 
place,  too.  I  get  you  under  my  feet.  I  show4  you  where 
you  belong." 

They  started  to  quarrel.  But  the  others  interfered. 
UO,  you  fools,"  cried  Anger.  "Can't  you  see  that  we  all 
have  to  work  together?  If  we  didn't  we  should  never 
accomplish  anything." 

But  Lust  was  not  so  easily  quieted.  "The  idea  of  say 
ing  that  I  don't  have  to  work.  There  are  some  people 
that  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  me.  When  I  come 
around,  they  positively  shiver.  But  just  let  me  once  get 
into  a  human  soul  and  I  tell  you  it's  almost  impossible  to 
get  me  out.  And  even  if  I'm  driven  out,  I'm  not  forgot 
ten.  I  can  do  something  that  you  others  can't  do :  I  can 
make  a  slave  of  memory.  There's  where  I  show  my 
power." 

THE  SUN  WAS  WELL  UP  in  the  sky  now.  The  ferries  were 
black  with  humanity.  Figures  were  clinging  to  the 
crowded  street  cars.  In  the  streets  the  people  swarmed. 
"It's  time  for  us  to  get  to  work,"  said  Jealousy.  "Can't 
you  hear  them  calling?  They're  beginning  to  think  about 
themselves  and  comparing  their  lot  with  others.  If  I  can 
get  in  there  first,  I  will  leave  the  doors  open  for  you." 

"Quick,"  said  Malice  impatiently.  "We  are  late  this 
morning.  I  long  to  hear  what  they  are  saying  to  one 
another.  I  will  get  them  to  repeat  things  they  hear  that 
will  do  mischief,  perhaps  with  a  little  change.  Keep  close 
to  me,  Anger." 

IN  A  FLOCK,  the  Evil  Passions  swept  through  the  air.  For 
a  few  moments  they  hovered  over  the  highest  buildings. 
Then  they  divided  into  small  groups,  some  going  into 

97 


THE  EVIL  PASSIONS 

offices,  some  into  houses,  still  others  flying  up  and  down 
the  streets,  looking  for  prey. 

MANY  PEOPLE  WENT  on  with  their  tasks,  as  if  they  were 
unaware  that  there  were  creatures  in  the  world  like  Evil 
Passions,  wholesome,  bright-eyed,  at  peace  with  them 
selves  and  with  their  fellow  beings.  Many  others  quickly 
yielded.  It  was  as  if  their  minds  had  become  possessed. 
And  throughout  the  city  the  usual  sins  were  committed, 
through  jealousy  and  malice  and  envy  and  anger  and  lust 
and  hate.  Most  of  them  were  secret.  Only  a  few  reached 
the  newspapers.  These  included  the  murder  by  a  young 
workman  of  his  foreman. 


THE  ENEMY 

A    MAN  stood  in  the  center  of  the  world  and  watched 
his    fellow-men.     He    saw    them    competing    and 
struggling  and  resenting  and  destroying.    To  save 
himself  from  destruction,  he  believed  that  he,  too,  must 
enter  into  the  fray.     He  must  fight,  desperately  and  per 
sistently.    Every  man  out  there  was  his  enemy.    He  would 
give  no  quarter. 

SOON  THE  MAN  BECAME  KNOWN  as  one  of  the  greatest  of 
the  fighters.  His  eyes  glistened  like  sparks  drawn  from 
flint.  His  jaw  hardened.  His  face  grew  furrowed. 
Everywhere  he  went  he  inspired  fear.  Wherever  he  turned 
his  eyes  he  saw  an  enemy.  When  he  heard  people  speak 
about  the  wonder  and  beauty  of  love  his  lips  would  widen 
in  a  grim  smile.  To  him,  love  was  a  mockery,  a  deceit, 
a  mask  worn  by  enmity  for  the  sake  of  gaining  advantage. 

WHEN  HE  GREW  OLD  the  man  stood  on  a  pinnacle.  He 
was  a  success,  out  of  the  reach  of  his  enemies.  He  had 
them  all  at  his  feet.  They  could  not  hurt  him  now.  And 
yet  he  did  not  feel  safe.  There  was  no  knowing  what 
they  might  try  to  do  to  him  in  their  jealousy  and  their 
hate.  It  was  a  joy  to  him  to  see  his  possessions  multiply 
ing  by  drawing  on  the  powers  of  his  enemies,  his  slaves; 
but  it  was  also  a  pain.  The  more  he  accumulated,  the 
more  he  was  afraid.  He  began  to  wonder  why  he  suffered 
so  much  and  why  he  was  so  lonely.  They  must  be  to 
blame.  They  were  working  against  him,  destroying  his 
peace  of  mind.  He  became  suspicious  of  the  very  people 
that  were  closest  to  him,  those  dependent  on  his  bounty. 
They,  too,  were  his  enemies.  He  said  to  himself  that  he 
had  been  too  considerate.  He  resolved  to  keep  a  close 
watch  on  them.  He  would  make  them  see  that,  without 

99 


THE    ENEMY 

him,  they  would  starve.  But  the  more  severe  he  was,  the 
worse  they  behaved.  Some  of  them  abandoned  him. 
Others  treated  him  with  covert  resentment.  A  few,  how 
ever,  went  on  flattering.  Those  he  feared  most.  They 
were  the  most  dangerous  enemies.  He  realized  the  bitter 
ness  of  living  in  an  atmosphere  of  ill-will.  And  yet,  he 
assured  himself,  there  was  nothing  he  could  do.  He  could 
not  change  human  nature.  But  he  could  fight  to  the  end. 
He  could  give  hate  for  hate. 

GRADUALLY,  PEOPLE  BEGAN  TO  TALK  about  the  eccen 
tricities  of  the  man.  Some  of  them  declared  that  he  was 
growing  mad.  Others  said  that  he  was  reaping  as  he  had 
sown.  A  few  pitied  the  lonely  figure,  living  apart  from  his 
fellows,  drawing  closer  and  closer  within  himself,  blind  to 
his  opportunities  for  service  and  for  happiness.  Occasion 
ally  one  would  approach  him  and  suggest  the  doing  of 
some  generous  act  for  the  benefit  of  mankind.  He,  too, 
would  be  treated  as  an  enemy.  "You  are  all  my  enemies," 
the  man  cried  out  one  day,  as  he  drove  one  of  these  visitors 
from  his  door.  "You  care  nothing  about  me.  You  want 
my  money.  But  you  shan't  have  it.  I  shall  keep  it  to  spite 
you."  With  anguish  he  reflected  that  he  could  not  carry 
the  money  with  him  into  the  grave.  But  so  long  as  he 
remained  on  earth,  it  should  be  his  alone. 

THE  DAY  CAME  when  the  man  could  not  endure  having 
anyone  about  him.  He  preferred  living  alone  to  living 
with  enemies.  In  his  great  house,  he  roamed  like  an  im 
prisoned  animal.  Then  the  authorities  interfered.  They 
sent  doctors  to  make  an  examination.  The  man  was 
furious.  Those  doctors  were  his  enemies.  Every  one  in 
the  world  was  his  enemy.  The  doctors  listened  quietly 
and  spoke  soothing  words.  The  man  grew  more  angry. 
They  could  not  deceive  him.  He  knew  what  they  were 
doing.  They  were  trying  to  get  his  money  like  all  those 

100 


THE    ENEMY 


others.  But  he  had  fought  all  his  life  and  he  would  fight 
till  the  end.  When  some  officers  were  called  into  the  room 
and  were  told  to  seize  him,  he  showed  his  marvelous 
strength  by  knocking  them  down,  and  making  his  escape. 
He  ran  to  the  top  of  the  house  and  locked  himself  into  a 
room.  Now  they  could  not  reach  him.  If  they  were  to 
break  down  the  door,  he  would  leap  out  of  the  window. 
He  stood  there,  panting  and  listening  for  the  sound  of 
steps.  There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  he  looked  quickly 
around.  He  felt  as  if  the  room  were  peopled  with  enemies. 
His  eyes  fell  upon  a  mirror  hanging  on  the  opposite  wall. 
He  saw  there  a  figure  staring  at  him  with  fury  and  hate 
that  seemed  to  express  all  the  enmity  turned  against  him 
in  the  course  of  his  life.  "So  we  have  met  at  last,"  he  said, 
and  he  saw  the  figure  speaking  the  same  words.  He 
walked  forward  stealthily,  the  enemy  walking  forward  in 
the  same  way  and  with  the  same  number  of  steps.  If  he 
could  only  give  his  enemy  one  deadly  blow  he  felt  that  he 
should  be  free.  He  drew  a  long  breath  and  gathered  all 
his  strength  and  plunged  forward. 

A  FEW  MOMENTS  LATER  they  reached  him,  lying  on  the 
floor,  broken  and  bleeding,  with  a  look  in  his  glazed 
eyes  strangely  like  triumph.  The  mirror  stood  there,  in 
the  terrible  silence  of  inanimate  things,  splintered.  They 
made  a  quick  examination  and  they  found  they  were  too 
late  to  give  any  help.  They  shook  their  heads  pityingly. 
For  a  few  moments  they  stood  without  speaking.  "What 
a  miserable  life,"  said  one.  "He  might  have  done  so  much 
for  the  world."  And  another  said:  "He  was  his  own 
enemy." 


101 


THE  RE-BIRTH 

A  MAN  and  a  woman  loved  each  other.  They  be 
lieved  that  their  love  was  the  most  beautiful  thing 
in  the  world,  the  most  wonderful.  They  resolved 
to  do  everything  in  their  power  to  keep  it  alive  in  their 
hearts.  Each  day  they  were  afraid  that  something  would 
hurt  it.  Most  of  all  they  feared  the  strife  of  men,  the 
enmities  and  the  jealousies. 

So  they  resolved  to  flee  from  the  haunts  of  mankind. 

They  went  to  the  top  of  a  high  mountain.  There  they 
should  be  alone  together! 

When  they  had  settled  themselves,  they  looked  raptur 
ously  into  each  other's  eyes. 

Now  they  need  fear  no  longer.  They  should  have  each 
other  forever. 

They  were  so  happy  that  they  did  not  think  about  the 
world  at  all. 

AFTER  A  FEW  MONTHS  fear  entered  the  lives  of  the  two. 

They  did  not  know  what  it  was.  But  it  was  there.  It 
was  unmistakable. 

It  made  each  of  them  suffer. 

At  first  each  hid  the  suffering  from  the  other.  Then 
each  blamed  the  other  for  the  suffering. 

There  were  moments  when  they  would  reproach  each 
other.  These  moments  would  be  followed  by  forgiveness 
and  by  new  tenderness. 

Gradually  the  reproaches  increased.  The  tenderness  de 
clined. 

At  times  they  longed  to  escape  from  each  other. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  truth  broke  upon  them.  It  was 
their  love  that  was  tormenting  them.  From  a  blessing  it 
was  changing  into  a  curse. 

What  they  had  fled  the  world  to  escape  from  was  hap- 

102 


THE  RE-BIRTH 

pening  here.  Their  love  was  destroying,  not  their  happi 
ness  only,  it  was  destroying  itself. 

"Oh,  what  shall  we  do?"  said  the  woman,  clasping  her 
hands. 

"We  must  go  back  to  the  haunts  of  men,"  said  the  man. 
"You  need  more  distraction." 

The  woman  agreed  to  go  back,  not  because  she  believed 
that  she  needed  distraction,  but  because  she  believed  that 
he  did. 

ONCE  IN  THE  WORLD  again,  the  two  tried  to  distract  them 
selves.  They  mingled  with  others  who,  like  themselves, 
loved  or  had  loved.  They  found  that  these  lovers,  too, 
were  seeking  distraction  from  each  other. 

"Is  love,  then,  so  unendurable?"  thought  each  of  the 
two,  and  neither  dared  to  ask  the  other. 

For  each  was  afraid  the  other  was  asking  the  same  ques 
tion. 

Some  of  the  lovers  they  met  openly  declared  that  love 
was  an  illusion,  a  deceit.  The  only  thing  to  do  was  to  keep 
changing  the  object.  In  this  way  love  could  be  kept  beau 
tiful — for  a  time. 

This  talk  terrified  the  lovers  still  more.  For  such  love 
as  they  had  left  they  still  wished  to  keep. 

But  each  day  their  love  grew  to  be  a  greater  torment. 

Nevertheless,  they  still  kept  their  faith  in  it.  If  they 
only  knew  how  to  deal  with  it  they  might  yet  make  it  again 
a  source  of  happiness. 

THIS  TIME  IT  WAS  THE  WOMAN  who  suggested  a  possible 
solution. 

"We  have  thought  only  of  ourselves,"  she  said.  "We 
have  believed  we  could  separate  our  love  from  the  life  of 
mankind.  We  have  shut  ourselves  off  from  those  most  in 
need  of  love.  Suppose  we  try  to  let  our  love  be  to  them 
a  means  of  service.  Then,  perhaps,  we  shall  escape  this 
torment." 

103 


THE  RE-BIRTH 

The  man  hesitated.  "There  is  no  service  in  the  world 
that  is  worth  doing,"  he  said,  "for  men  live  in  the  realm 
of  hate." 

"Then  let  us  go  into  the  realm  of  hate,"  the  woman 
cried.  "It  cannot  be  worse  than  the  self-indulgence  we 
live  in  now.  And,  perhaps,  if  we  offer  love  there  we  shall 
find  a  few  that  will  accept  it." 

So  into  the  depths  they  went,  where  the  sufferers  from 
hate  were  crowded  together,  the  millions. 

At  first  the  millions  were  suspicious  of  these  two. 
"They  have  some  motive,"  they  said.  "They  belong  to 
the  exploiters.  They  wish  to  profit  further  from  us  by 
becoming  familiar  with  our  misery  and  comparing  it  with 
their  own  good  fortune." 

FROM  DAY  TO  DAY,  in  their  pity  for  the  suffering  they  saw 
about  them,  the  two  became  distracted  from  themselves 
and  from  each  other.  And  the  more  they  pitied  the  more 
they  served. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  they  began  to  understand  what 
love  meant. 

"We  thought  it  was  for  ourselves,"  they  confided  to 
each  other.  "But  now  we  know  it  was  for  the  world." 

At  that  moment  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  and 
they  saw  love  there,  more  beautiful  than  it  had  been  be 
fore,  more  wonderful. 

"How  strange  not  to  be  afraid,"  said  the  woman.  And 
the  man,  taking  her  hand,  replied,  "There's  nothing  to  be 
afraid  of." 


104 


THE  GIANT'S  DAUGHTER 

A  GIANT  lived  in  a  hut  on  a  mountain.  He  had 
one  child,  a  beautiful  girl.  In  her  was  centered 
all  his  happiness.  Each  morning  as  he  went  to  his 
task  he  thought  of  her.  And  all  day  long,  while  he  con 
tended  with  the  forces  of  nature,  she  was  in  his  mind.  At 
nightfall  he  would  go  home  to  her,  tired  and  heavy  laden. 
The  rewards  of  his  toil  he  would  throw  at  her  feet.  She 
would  clap  her  hands  for  joy  and  laugh.  She  would  em 
brace  her  father  and  pat  him  affectionately  on  the  back. 
Then  she  would  give  him  something  to  eat  and  he  would 
stretch  himself  in  front  of  the  fire  and  sleep. 

As  THE  GIRL  GREW  from  a  child  to  a  woman  she  became 
marvelously  beautiful.  The  giant  worshiped  her.  He 
dressed  her  in  rich  garments.  He  gave  her  silver  and  gold 
and  rare  jewels,  torn  from  the  earth  by  his  fierce  efforts, 
with  agony  in  his  face  and  sweat  pouring  from  his  huge 
body.  And  the  more  he  gave  the  more  the  girl  expected. 
Sometimes  she  would  scold  him  for  not  giving  enough. 
At  a  severe  look  from  her  or  at  a  resentful  word  the  giant 
would  become  depressed.  He  would  promise  to  do  better 
the  next  day.  That  night  he  would  sleep  less  peacefully, 
tossing  and  sighing. 

THE  GIRL  SOON  PERCEIVED  what  a  power  she  had  over  her 
father.  She  used  it  by  treating  him  with  severity.  She 
said  to  herself  that  she  had  done  wrong  in  being  so  affec 
tionate  and  kind.  The  only  way  to  keep  him  in  his  place 
was  to  let  him  know  that  he  was  her  slave. 

FOR  A  LONG  TIME  the  giant  was  patient.  He  made  excuses 
for  his  daughter.  She  was  very  young.  As  she  grew 


THE  GIANT  S  DAUGHTER 

older  she  would  see  how  much  she  owed  him.  In  return 
for  his  devotion  she  would  give  him  a  little  love  and  care. 
Perhaps  the  change  would  come  suddenly.  Some  night 
when  he  went  home  with  his  burden  of  gifts  she  would 
see  him  staggering  to  the  door,  and  all  the  affection  and 
gratitude  that  must  lie  in  her  heart  would  burst  out.  Then 
she  would  throw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  they  would 
be  daughter  and  father  again,  and  live  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives  in  harmony  and  peace.  Perhaps  she  would  even 
tell  him  that  already  he  had  done  too  much  for  her,  and 
that,  in  future,  he  need  not  work  so  hard.  It  would  be 
good  to  have  leisure,  to  sit  in  the  sun  and  to  look  out  on 
the  mountain,  the  scene  of  so  many  years  of  toil,  and  to 
enjoy  the  bounty  of  nature  and  to  lift  the  heart  in  praise 
of  God. 

ONE  NIGHT,  after  a  particularly  heavy  day,  just  as  the 
giant  was  about  to  lie  down  in  front  of  the  fire,  he  spoke 
to  his  daughter  of  these  things.  She  listened  with  amaze 
ment  in  her  face,  her  beautiful  eyes  dark  and  threatening. 
When  he  finished  she  broke  out  into  angry  words:  "How 
dare  you  speak  to  me  like  that  ?  Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  think  you  are  my  equal?  If  you  didn't  have  me  to 
take  care  of  you,  what  would  happen  to  you  ?  Who  would 
give  you  your  food  and  your  place  to  sleep?  You  ought 
to  be  grateful  for  what  you  have  and  not  ask  for  anything 
more.  If  you  ever  speak  to  me  again  as  you've  done  to 
night  I  will  put  you  in  your  place.  I  will  make  you  realize 
what  you  are.  Now  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep  and  don't 
let  me  hear  another  word  from  you.  And  see  that  you  are 
up  early  in  the  morning,  before  daylight,  and  do  your 
work  for  me." 

Without  a  word  the  giant  lay  down.  All  night  long  he 
tossed  in  front  of  the  fire,  torn  with  wounded  love  and 
anger  and  despair.  Meanwhile,  from  the  next  room,  he 
could  hear  his  daughter  gently  breathing. 

106 


THE  GIANT'S  DAUGHTER 

FOR  A  LONG  TIME  the  giant  kept  at  his  work.  When  he 
returned  home  at  night  he  would  find  something  to  eat. 
But  his  daughter  served  him  no  longer.  Often  she  was 
not  there  to  receive  him.  And  when  she  was  there  she 
would  speak  no  word  of  greeting.  She  treated  him  with 
disdain.  He  saw  that  she  was  ashamed  of  him.  She  did 
not  wish  to  acknowledge  him  as  her  father.  All  she  cared 
was  to  take  what  he  brought.  Sometimes  she  would  look 
over  the  precious  things  with  a  sneer  in  her  face.  It  was 
only  when  she  found  some  exceptionally  rare  jewel  that  she 
looked  pleased.  She  would  seize  it  with  both  hands  and 
her  eyes  would  shine.  But  she  never  thought  of  giving 
thanks. 

MEANWHILE  THE  GIANT  WAS  THINKING. 

One  day,  greatly  to  his  own  surprise,  he  resolved  that 
he  would  endure  the  situation  no  longer.  He  would  build 
a  hut  for  himself.  He  would  provide  his  own  meals.  He 
would  do  just  enough  work  to  keep  himself  alive.  He 
would  try  to  forget  that  he  had  a  daughter. 

That  night,  instead  of  going  home,  he  took  the  reward 
of  his  day's  work  and  he  threw  it  on  the  ground  under  a 
great  tree.  Then  he  foraged  on  the  mountainside  for 
food.  After  all,  he  did  not  need  much.  A  few  berries 
and  herbs  would  keep  him  alive.  The  next  day  he  would 
draw  on  the  plentiful  resources  all  about  him.  At  the 
thought  he  glowed  with  pleasure.  The  task  would  be 
slight  compared  with  the  fearful  efforts  he  had  been  mak 
ing  in  his  former  day's  work. 

When  the  giant  had  gathered  enough  to  sustain  him 
he  built  a  fire  of  dry  wood  and  he  stretched  himself  before 
it  and  he  had  the  best  sleep  he  had  known  in  years. 

THE  NEXT  MORNING  his  daughter  came  and  found  him 
digging  in  the  earth.     She  approached  him  wrathfully. 
uWhy  didn't  you  come  home  last  night?" 
The  giant  went  on  digging. 

107 


"What  are  you  doing?  Why  aren't  you  at  your 
work?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  great  reproachful  eyes.  "I 
am  going  to  build  a  house  for  myself." 

She  broke  into  a  scornful  laugh.  uWho  will  take  care 
of  it  for  you  and  who  will  take  care  of  you  ?" 

"I  will  take  care  of  myself  and  I  will  take  care  of  my 
house,  too,"  he  quietly  replied. 

uYou  must  be  crazy,"  she  said.  "The  sooner  you  come 
to  your  senses  the  better  for  you.  Do  you  understand?" 

The  giant  went  on  digging.     "I  understand,"  he  said. 

In  a  rage,  she  began  to  scold  again.  The  giant  made  no 
response  till  she  said:  "Haven't  you  sense  enough  to 
realize  that  you  owe  everything  to  me?" 

He  suddenly  turned  and  looked  at  the  bedizened  little 
figure.  Then  he  burst  into  loud  laughter.  It  echoed  and 
re-echoed  through  the  mountains. 

The  girl  fled  in  terror. 

FOR  THE  NEXT  FEW  WEEKS  the  giant  did  not  see  his 
daughter.  He  was  very  happy.  It  seemed  wonderful  to 
him  that  he  should  be  able  to  build  a  house  for  himself 
and  to  find  plenty  to  eat  without  having  to  endure  the  old 
tyranny.  He  was  glad,  too,  that  his  daughter  was  letting 
him  alone.  Perhaps  she  could  be  happy  in  her  own  way. 
He  resolved  to  try  to  keep  all  malice  out  of  his  heart.  It 
would  have  been  a  comfort  to  have  a  good  daughter.  But 
now  the  bitterness  of  disappointment  was  past.  The 
world  was  still  beautiful.  He  could  have  peace. 

A  few  days  later,  while  the  giant  was  working  on  his 
house,  now  almost  finished,  he  heard  a  slow  step  on  the 
mountainside.  He  glanced  around  and  in  the  distanct  he 
observed  his  daughter.  He  wondered  why  she  was  walk 
ing  so  slowly.  As  she  came  nearer  he  saw  that  she  looked 
wasted  and  ill,  and  that  her  beautiful  clothes  were  worn 
and  tattered. 

108 


THE  GIANT'S  DAUGHTER 

He  turned  his  back  and  went  on  working.  He  heard 
her  come  close  to  him,  so  close  that  he  could  feel  her 
breath  on  his  cheek.  She  was  leaning  toward  him. 
"Father,"  she  whispered. 

He  drew  away,  fearing  to  look  at  her.  The  sight  of 
her  would  tear  at  his  heart.  But  he  must  not  show  the 
least  pity  or  love. 

"Father,"  she  repeated. 

He  turned.  The  suffering  in  her  face  was  terrible  to 
see. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked,  trying  to  keep  his  voice 
stern. 

"Have  pity,  father,"  she  said.  "I  cannot  live  without 
you.  You  gave  me  life  and  you  kept  me  alive  with  your 
strength.  Since  you  went  away  all  the  treasure  you 
lavished  on  me  has  turned  to  dust.  I  did  not  understand 
before,  father.  But  now  I  understand." 

SHE  WAS  so  WEAK  that  she  tottered  and  sank  to  the 
ground. 

He  lifted  her  in  his  great  arms  and  placed  her  on  the 
couch  he  had  built  for  himself.  He  gave  her  drink  and 
food.  Presently  she  opened  her  eyes  and  she  said,  "For 
give  me,  father." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  tightly.  She  could  feel 
his  hand  tremble. 

"Are  you  still  afraid  of  me,  father?" 

"I  am  afraid  that  you  will  try  to  make  me  your  slave 
again." 

"If  you  will  only  save  me  I  will  work  for  you,  father. 
I  will  give  you  my  life  as  you  have  given  me  yours." 

The  giant  shook  his  head. 

"Am  I  not  your  child,  father?"  the  girl  pleaded. 

"You  turned  against  me,"  said  the  giant.  His  great 
frame  shivered. 

"Is  there  no  way  of  winning  back  your  love?" 

109 


THE  GIANT'S  DAUGHTER 

After  a  long  time  the  giant  replied:  "There  is  only 
one  way.  Show  me  whether  you  are  my  daughter  in  truth 
as  well  as  in  name." 

"How  shall  I  show  you?" 

"By  working  with  me,  side  by  side." 

The  girl  seemed  to  be  infused  with  strength.  She  rose 
from  the  couch.  "Shall  we  go  back  together,  father?" 

"We  will  stay  here." 

Side  by  side,  through  the  long  day,  they  labored  on 
the  new  house.  The  lighter  tasks  he  left  to  her.  He  had 
to  teach  her  everything. 

At  the  end  of  the  day  they  were  both  tired  but  happy. 

"Father,"  said  the  girl,  "I  am  just  beginning  to  live." 


no 


THE  CRIME 

A  MAN  committed  a  crime.  No  one  knew  about  it 
but  himself.  The  thought  of  it  was  a  continual 
torment.  It  made  him  feel  unworthy  of  living 
among  his  fellowmen.  Death  would  have  been  welcome; 
but  he  felt  that  he  was  unfit  to  die.  For  a  long  time  he 
struggled  with  the  temptation  to  kill  himself.  He  was 
restrained  by  the  dread  of  being  a  coward  and  of  com 
mitting  another  crime.  Besides,  how  could  he  know  that 
in  death  there  would  be  escape?  Had  not  his  crime  be 
come  a  part  of  him  ?  Wherever  his  spirit  went,  would  not 
the  crime  go,  too? 

AT  LAST  THE  MAN  made  up  his  mind  that  there  was  noth 
ing  for  him  to  do  but  to  live.  Now,  if  he  could,  he  must 
justify  his  life.  He  must  place  it  at  the  service  of  his  fel 
low-beings.  In  this  kind  of  effort  alone  could  he  forget 
himself.  And  in  forgetting  himself  he  would  forget  his 
crime.  Each  day  he  strove.  At  the  end,  however,  the 
crime  would  rise  up  before  him.  "I  am  here,"  it  would 
seem  to  say.  To  avoid  meeting  it,  the  man  would  work  in 
the  evening.  He  would  go  to  bed  so  exhausted  that  he 
would  fall  asleep  at  once.  The  next  morning,  however, 
he  would  find  his  crime  waiting.  "I  am  here."  He  would 
dress  quickly  and  begin  to  strive  again. 

GRADUALLY,  IT  DAWNED  upon  the  man  that  there  were 
others  like  himself,  haunted  with  the  memory  of  the  evil 
they  had  done,  walking  the  earth  with  eyes  of  terror.  He 
began  to  look  for  them.  Often,  he  recognized  them  at 
sight.  Whenever  he  could  he  would  give  them  help. 
Sometimes  they  would  show  resentment  or  fear.  Usually, 
however,  they  were  grateful.  One  said:  "It  is  wonderful 
that  you  should  understand."  He  replied:  "Perhaps  I 

in 


THE    CRIME 

have  something  on  my  own  soul."  The  other  looked 
frightened  and  drew  away. 

PRESENTLY  THE  WORLD  BEGAN  to  notice  the  man.  It 
gave  him  credit.  It  called  him  a  great  spirit.  It  offered 
him  honor.  But  he  refused.  He  feared  danger.  He 
might  be  tempted  again  and  yield.  For  himself  he  must 
take  nothing.  He  must  always  give.  But  when  he  made 
this  decision  he  grieved.  Like  other  men,  he  loved  honor. 
After  all,  perhaps  it  would  be  safe.  There  were  others 
that  had  done  wrong.  At  that  instant  his  crime  stood  be 
fore  him.  "I  am  here." 

"And  will  you  always  be  here?"  the  man  asked. 

"Always,"  the  crime  replied. 

So  THE  MAN  TURNED  from  honor  and  went  on  with  his 
work.  Each  day  greater  demands  were  made  on  him. 
He  had  scarcely  a  moment  to  think  of  himself.  It  was 
only  in  the  morning,  when  he  woke,  that  he  met  the  crime. 
Then  he  would  be  spurred  to  fresh  effort. 

People  close  to  him  saw  that  he  was  aging;  his  face 
was  growing  finer,  too,  more  calm  and  spiritual.  There 
was  a  strange  look  in  his  eyes.  Some  of  them  explained  it 
by  saying  that  he  suffered  for  others,  for  what  they  endured 
through  the  injustice  of  the  world.  No  one  knew  the  real 
explanation.  Some  of  them  used  to  wonder  how,  after 
leading  so  fine  a  life,  far  from  evil,  he  should  have  so  much 
understanding  and  sympathy.  "Nothing  shocks  him," 
said  one.  "He  can  enter  into  the  feelings  of  the  greatest 
sinner.  And  he  never  wants  to  punish.  He  says  that  to  be 
a  sinner  is  punishment  enough.  How  can  he  know?" 

One  of  them  ventured  to  repeat  these  remarks  to  him. 
His  face  flushed.  He  turned  away. 

THE  TIME  CAME  when  the  man  fell  in  the  midst  of  his 
work.  He  had  worn  himself  out.  They  carried  him 

112 


THE   CRIME 

home.  They  placed  him  on  the  bed  where  each  morning, 
face  to  face,  he  had  met  his  crime. 

They  told  him  he  was  dying. 

He  smiled  faintly.    "At  last,"  he  said. 

They  asked  him  if  there  was  anything  he  wished.  He 
replied:  "I  should  like  to  rest." 

They  decided  to  leave  him  alone  for  a  while,  drawing 
down  the  shades  that  the  room  might  be  dark.  The  mo 
ment  they  closed  the  door  behind  them  the  crime  appeared, 
no  longer  menacing,  but  a  radiant  presence.  "I  am  here." 

The  man  opened  his  eyes,  looking  with  astonishment  at 
the  figure. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  asked. 

"You  have  fulfilled  your  life." 

"But  my  crime — I  do  not  see  it." 

"I  am  your  crime.  Have  you  not  learned  to  know  me 
through  all  these  years  ?  Do  you  not  recognize  my  voice  ?" 

"Your  voice  I  recognized.  But  your  presence  has 
changed.  What  has  changed  you?" 

"You  have  changed  me.  You  have  turned  my  ugliness 
into  beauty.  You  have  made  me  the  means  of  your  re 
demption.  From  an  enemy  you  have  converted  me  into 
a  friend." 

The  man  drew  a  long  breath.  "Oh!  I  understand 
now.  But  it  is  I  who  ought  to  thank  you.  You  have  saved 


me." 


The  presence  disappeared.  The  arms  dropped.  The 
man  lay  still. 

When  they  found  him  there  they  said:  "He  has  had 
the  kind  of  death  he  would  have  wished." 

They  spoke  of  his  wonderful  life. 


THE  DREAM 

THERE  was  a  man  whose  work  in  life  was  humble. 
Early  in  the  morning  he  went  to  his  monotonous 
task  and  he  returned  home  at  nightfall.    He  had 
a  large  family  to  sustain.    His  days  were  full  of  care. 
His  friends  often  spoke  of  him  with  pity. 
But  he  did  not  pity  himself.     For  there  was  something 
within  that  lifted  him  beyond  sordidness:  his  dream. 

As  far  back  as  he  could  remember,  he  had  dreamed 
that  some  day  he  was  going  to  be  a  great  writer. 

IN  CHILDHOOD  he  had  weird  fancies.  He  used  to  tell 
them  to  other  children.  Even  then  he  felt  sure  that  if  he 
were  to  write  them  out  they  would  make  wonderful  stories. 

But  he  never  had  time  to  write  them  out. 

The  day  came  when  the  man  had  to  labor.  At  first  he 
rebelled.  Why  should  he  live  as  if  he  were  a  machine? 
He  had  a  nobler  service  to  do  for  the  world.  But  necessity 
held  him.  Then  love  strengthened  his  bonds.  The  bonds 
were  soon  riveted  by  duty. 

But  toil  could  not  destroy  the  dream. 

By  day  he  would  think  of  marvelous  tales.  All  he  had 
to  do  would  be  to  write  them  out.  They  would  make  the 
world  burst  into  acclaim. 

At  last  he  realized  he  must  begin  to  write.  He  would 
devote  Sunday  to  his  task. 

When  he  made  the  resolution  he  felt  a  strange  fear.  It 
was  like  sickness.  For  a  moment  his  heart  seemed  to  stop 
beating. 

He  found  himself  saying,  as  if  he  were  speaking  to 
someone  else:  "Suppose  you  should  fail.  Suppose  you 
should  find  that,  after  all,  you  did  not  really  possess  talent 
for  writing. " 

Then  his  dream  would  be  shattered.    There  would  be 

114 


THE    DREAM 


no  relief  from  the  monotony  of  his  life.  He  would  be 
nothing  but  a  machine  ! 

NEVERTHELESS,  the  man  determined  to  begin. 

But  on  Sunday  morning  his  wife  said  she  should  take  the 
children  to  the  country.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to  go,  too. 
With  relief,  he  put  off  writing  till  the  following  Sunday, 
when  he  should  have  the  whole  day  to  himself. 

On  that  Sunday  and  on  all  other  Sundays  something 
would  happen  to  keep  him  from  writing.  And  though  he 
was  determined  to  make  the  start,  deep  in  his  conscious 
ness  he  was  glad  to  be  kept  from  making  it. 

For  always  at  the  thought  of  trying  there  would  be  that 
strange  feeling  of  weakness  and  fear. 

Meanwhile  the  old  confidence  remained,  the  belief  that 
to  achieve  success  he  had  only  to  reach  out  his  hand. 

WITH  THE  GREAT  WRITERS  of  the  world  the  man  now  felt 
a  natural  kinship.  If  they  should  meet  him  they  would 
recognize  him  as  one  of  themselves.  He  followed  their 
work  with  a  professional  eye. 

He  never  spoke  of  his  dream  to  any  one.  He  would  be 
misunderstood.  He  used  to  wonder  why  the  people  he 
knew  did  not  suspect  the  existence  of  his  gifts.  But  some 
day  they  would  realize.  Then  they  would  be  startled  and 
ashamed  that  they  had  not  appreciated  him  before. 

People  really  did  feel  that  there  was  something  unusual 
about  the  man,  both  those  who  knew  him  and  those  who 
only  saw  him  in  passing.  He  went  his  way  with  a  light  in 
his  eyes.  He  was  a  creature  apart.  In  the  very  condi 
tions  of  his  failure  he  walked  like  one  that  radiated 
success  and  power. 

Strangers  on  first  seeing  him,  often  used  to  ask  who  he 
was.  Sometimes  they  said  he  looked  distinguished. 

ONE  MORNING  the  man  woke  up  and  found  that  he  had 
grown  old. 


THE   DREAM 


It  was  too  late  for  him  to  begin  to  write  now. 
He  ought  to  have  begun  years  before. 
As  he  lay  in  his  bed  he  knew  the  bitterness  of  disap 
pointment  and  failure. 

And  yet  he  felt  a  great  relief. 

He  still  had  his  dream. 

Now  it  could  never  be  destroyed. 

The  man  he  might  have  been  he  should  always  be. 


116 


THE  SHINING  SOLDIERY 

MANY  generations  ago  some  workers  created  little 
men  of  silver  and  gold.     These  little  men  they 
used  for  servants.    Here  and  there  the  little  men 
would  dart,  making  life  much  easier  for  their  masters. 

SOON  THE  MASTERS  WONDERED  how  they  had  been  able  to 
get  along  without  such  help.  There  were  those  that  loved 
the  shining  creatures  more  than  their  own  flesh  and  blood, 
more  than  life  itself.  Sometimes  they  would  lock  them 
up  in  dungeons  just  for  the  sake  of  keeping  them  safe. 

This  treatment  of  the  little  men  would  have  a  strange 
effect.  Though  the  little  men  remained  the  same,  the 
masters  would  grow  sick. 

Other  masters  showed  more  discretion.  They  would 
make  the  little  men  the  means  of  doing  service  to  the 
world.  Many  said  that  the  marvelous  progress  of  hu 
manity  was  largely  due  to  the  activity  of  those  indefatig 
able  workers. 

THERE  WERE  THOSE  who  began  to  believe  that  life  was 
not  worth  living  unless  they  possessed  large  numbers  of 
the  shining  soldiers. 

Men  began  to  judge  one  another  by  such  possessions. 

Those  who  had  few  soldiers  fought  desperately  to  secure 
more.  Those  that  had  many  strove  to  rob  those  that  had 
few. 

In  this  way  hate  and  jealousy  and  bitterness  grew  in 
the  hearts  of  those  that  should  have  been  brothers. 

For  the  sake  of  securing  those  workers  both  women 
and  men  bartered  their  self-respect  and  honor. 

And  men  even  used  the  soldiers  to  possess  themselves 
of  the  women  and  to  make  the  women  enter  lives  of  degra 
dation. 

117 


THE  SHINING  SOLDIERY 

The  preachers  and  the  teachers  of  the  world  denounced 
the  little  men  as  the  cause  of  all  evil. 

Meanwhile,  the  little  men  went  on  working,  persistently, 
eagerly,  indefatigably,  seeming  to  grow  stronger  and  more 
ingenious. 

AFTER  A  TIME,  however,  the  little  men  began  to  misbe 
have.  They  would  run  away  from  their  masters  to  join 
other  little  men.  They  showed  a  great  love  for  working 
in  large  masses.  They  formed  themselves  into  companies. 

Very  slowly  the  companies  grew  into  regiments. 

After  many  years  the  regiments  became  armies. 

Presently  the  armies  began  to  flash  across  the  earth. 

They  would  meet  in  fierce  battle.  The  world  would 
look  on  breathlessly. 

Often  after  a  battle  the  conquerors  would  take  posses 
sion  of  the  conquered,  vastly  increasing  their  army.  Then 
the  conquered  and  the  conquerors  would  march  together 
for  further  conquest. 

IN  TIME,  however,  the  armies  stopped  fighting  among 
themselves.  They 'saw  that  their  interests  were  identical. 
They  could  be  far  more  effective  by  working  together.  So 
they  made  peace  compacts,  uniting  their  forces. 

The  world  became  alarmed.  The  shining  soldiers  were 
disfiguring  the  earth  with  poverty-stricken  tracks.  They 
were  possessing  themselves  of  the  resources  of  nature. 
Instead  of  being  the  slaves  of  mankind,  they  were  becom 
ing  the  masters. 

From  the  terrified  people  rose  a  multitude  of  voices, 
uttering  cries  of  warning  and  proposing  plans  for  the 
routing  of  those  armies.  There  were  those  who  paid  no 
heed.  They  enjoyed  the  spectacle,  not  realizing  what  it 
meant  to  themselves  and  to  those  near  to  them  and  dear. 

Meanwhile,  those  who  were  suffering  most  from  the 
devastation  quarreled  so  fiercely  among  themselves  as  to 

118 


THE  SHINING  SOLDIERY 

what  should  be  done  that  they  became  easy  prey  for  the 
soldiers.  At  their  arguments  and  appeals  the  soldiers  used 
to  laugh  openly. 

IT  WAS  NOT  till  the  whole  world  had  been  overrun  and  the 
soldiers  were  on  the  point  of  becoming  one  great  army, 
controlling  all  the  resources  of  nature,  that  the  world  be 
came  alive  to  the  horror.  Even  those  who  had  been 
amused  by  the  spectacle  realized. 

Then  it  was  that  men  saw  the  folly  of  quarreling  among 
themselves.  They  set  aside  their  disputes.  The  common 
danger  made  them  see  the  importance  of  recognizing  their 
common  need  and  their  common  humanity.  They  resolved 
to  stand  together  and  to  attack  and  to  disperse  the  shining 
soldiery. 

All  over  the  world  mankind  rose  as  one  man.  With 
fury  they  assaulted  the  soldiers.  To  their  amazement, 
they  saw  the  shining  ranks  fall  before  them.  Those  bright 
little  creatures  were  cowards.  They  had  the  nature 
of  slaves.  All  they  cared  for  was  a  master.  And  their 
rightful  master  they  recognized  in  the  people  that  had 
made  them  and  that  sustained  them  with  the  blood  of  life. 

BEFORE  THE  END  of  the  day  the  world  knew  that  the  vic 
tory  was  complete.  It  had  been  almost  too  easy.  It  made 
men  realize  their  own  weakness  in  the  past. 

Now  the  soldiers  took  their  place  where  they  belonged. 
For  their  lawful  masters  they  worked  as  faithfully  as 
they  had  done  for  the  unlawful.  Instead  of  harming,  they 
helped.  The  world  they  had  devastated  they  converted 
into  a  beautiful  garden,  teeming  with  the  bounties  of 
nature. 

And  men  looked  on  and  marveled,  recognizing  that  they 
were  at  the  beginning  of  progress. 


119 


THE  MATE 

QUIETLY  a  man  passed  along  the  way  of  life. 
Everyone  liked  him  for  his  straightforward  ways, 
his  kindliness,  his  humor.  Though  he  was  very 
successful,  he  did  not  seem  to  be  in  the  least  proud.  By 
most  people  he  was  considered  lucky.  In  spite  of  being 
coarse  in  his  manners  and  in  his  speech,  he  was  married 
to  a  very  superior  woman.  Occasionally  someone  would 
wonder  why  she  had  cared  for  him.  She  might  have  made 
a  better  choice.  They  were  known,  however,  to  be  very 
happy.  What  he  lacked  she  made  up  for  by  her  culture, 
her  religious  devotion,  her  philanthropy  and  by  her  inter 
est  in  many  causes  working  for  the  uplife  of  humanity. 

ONE  DAY  THE  MAN  DIED,  suddenly,  unexpectedly.  The 
wife  was  overwhelmed  with  grief.  But  it  was  not  of  her 
loss  that  she  though  chiefly.  It  was  of  his  bewilderment  in 
the  other  world.  She  tried  to  think  of  ways  of  sending 
him  aid.  She  said  many  prayers.  She  consulted  friends 
who  were  as  religious  as  herself  or  more  religious.  One 
happened  to  be  a  theosophist,  a  woman  who,  for  most  of  a 
long  life,  had  devoted  herself  to  religious  study  and  who 
was  known  to  be  an  "invisible  helper."  Together  they 
had  often  discussed  the  mysteries  of  life  and  death. 

uYou  know,"  said  the  wife,  "though  my  husband  was 
very  good  to  me  and  though  I  loved  him  dearly,  he  could 
share  only  a  part  of  my  thought.  In  some  ways  he  seemed 
to  have  no  spiritual  understanding  whatever;  but  he  never 
interfered  with  me  and  he  never  ridiculed.  He  was  so 
considerate  that  perhaps  I  didn't  try  as  I  should  have  done 
to  make  him  think  more  deeply  about  spiritual  things. 
Now  I  am  sorry.  I  feel  that  he  has  gone  over  unprepared. 
He  must  feel  so  lost.  I  have  heard  of  the  work  you  do 
among  the  souls  that  have  just  left  the  body,  especially 

1 20 


THE  MATE 

among  those  that  don't  know  where  they  are  and  are  most 
in  need  of  help.  To-night,  when  you  are  asleep  and  when 
your  soul  goes  out  on  its  beautiful  mission,  I  wish  you 
would  make  a  search  for  him.  I  am  afraid  you  will  find 
him  in  the  depths.  He  had  so  much  to  learn.  It  will  be 
hard  for  him  to  begin." 

THE  INVISIBLE  HELPER  smiled  and  promised.  "I  shall 
lose  no  time,"  she  said.  "And  I  have  no  doubt  that  I  shall 
be  able  to  find  him.  Souls  like  his  are  always  on  the 
watch  for  aid.  If  I  don't  recognize  him  as  I  pass  he  will 
doubtless  recognize  me." 

And  don't  be  discouraged  if  he  still  longs  for  this  world 
and  tries  to  resist  going  on.  He  loved  everything  here  and 
everyone.  His  thoughts  were  centered  on  the  earth.  I  am 
afraid  that  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  he  will  be  able  to 
reconcile  himself  to  the  other  life." 

"Nothing  ever  discourages  me  over  there,"  said  the 
theosophist  with  her  gentle  smile.  uYou  know  it  is  my 
mission  to  help  just  such  cases  as  his.  The  harder  they 
are  the  more  I  can  give." 

"May  I  come  to  see  you  to-morrow?"  the  wife  asked 
with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "I  shall  be  anxious  for  news." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  theosophist. 

THE  NEXT  DAY  the  two  women  met  again,  the  wife  trem 
bling  with  emotion  and  the  theosophist  radiantly  smiling. 
"Did  you  find  him  ?"  the  wife  asked. 

The  theosophist  nodded,  pointing  to  a  chair.  They  sat 
facing  each  other.  "Oh,  tell  me,"  the  wife  pleaded. 

"Well,  it  was  very  curious,"  the  theosophist  went  on, 
her  whole  face  glowing.  "After  what  you  told  me  I 
thought  I  knew  where  to  go.  As  soon  as  I  was  asleep  my 
soul  left  the  body  and  flew  through  the  air.  In  an  instant 
I  was  among  the  spirits  lately  released  from  the  earth, 
millions  of  them,  like  a  great  cloud.  Many  were  be- 

121 


THE  MATE 

wildered.  I  heard  some  of  them  expressing  astonishment 
that  there  should  be  an  after  life.  Though  they  had  always 
heard  of  it,  and  though  there  were  church-goers  among 
them,  they  had  never  believed  it  was  real.  It  was  only  the 
few  that  showed  that  they  were  not  surprised  and  acted  as 
if  they  felt  at  home  and  were  happy." 

"But  my  husband,"  the  wife  said,  trying  to  hide  her 
impatience,  "did  you  find  him  among  the  bewildered  ones?" 

"I  looked  for  him  there.  I  looked  again  and  again, 
without  finding  him.  At  last  I  went  to  the  higher  realm 
where  those  souls  were  that  had  already  adjusted  them 
selves  to  the  new  conditions  and  were  thriving.  Even 
there  I  couldn't  find  him.  Then  I  went  higher  and  higher 
and  higher.  Suddenly,  to  my  astonishment,  someone 
called  to  me  and  there  he  was,  serene  and  radiant,  very 
much  as  he  had  been  on  earth,  among  the  great  souls." 

"Oh!"  the  wife  exclaimed  in  a  long  sigh.  Her  face 
looked  blank.  "Among  the  great  souls?"  she  repeated. 
"And  did  he  seem  happy?" 

"Very  happy." 

"And  didn't  he  miss  the  earth  at  all?" 

The  theosophist  shook  her  head. 

"Didn't  he  miss  me?" 

"He  spoke  beautifully  of  you.  He  said  that  you  had 
always  been  his  inspiration.  He  was  looking  forward  to 
the  time  when  you  would  be  his  companion  again."  He 
said  there  were  so  many  things  he  wanted  to  point  out  to 
you,  so  many  things  you  would  appreciate  and  enjoy." 

The  wife  drew  back.  Her  manner  was  somewhat 
colder.  "I  see  that  he  doesn't  need  me  now,"  she  said. 
"I'm  sorry  that  I  gave  you  the  trouble  of  looking  for  him." 
She  rose  and  extended  her  hand.  "Thank  you  so  much." 
She  hesitated.  There  was  evidently  something  on  her 
mind.  "Are  you  really  sure  your  soul  goes  out  that  way?" 
she  asked.  "Don't  you  think  that  it  may  be  just  your  im 
agination?" 

122 


THE  HAUNTED  SOUL 

A  MAN  believed  that  his  soul  was  haunted,  that  the 
ghosts  of  those  whose  blood  ran  in  his  veins  con 
tended  for  possession.  There  were  moments  when 
he  could  almost  see  his  soul,  like  a  timid  little  animal, 
darting  here  and  there  in  an  effort  to  escape  from  those 
monstrous  forces.  They  included  the  founder  of  the  fam 
ily,  the  merciless  warrior  that,  for  service  to  his  king, 
had  secured  the  vast  hereditary  lands ;  the  warrior's  grand 
son  that  had  drunk  himself  to  death;  the  grandson's  wife, 
married  during  a  debauch,  a  woman  of  uncontrolled  im 
pulses  that  had  contributed  so  many  of  her  vicious  instincts 
to  her  line.  Those  three,  celebrated  beyond  their  own 
period,  found  new  life  in  this  descendant,  living  in  a  time, 
so  remote,  so  alien,  and  yet  meeting  so  many  opportunities 
for  indulgence. 

THERE  WERE  DAYS  when  the  man  was  controlled  by  the 
old  warrior.  Those  that  had  the  misfortune  to  get  in  his 
way  were  made  to  feel  like  the  beasts  of  the  field.  Some  of 
them  were  struck  down  and  cursed  and  subjected  to  in 
dignities  that  drove  them  into  fury ;  but  they  did  not  dare 
betray  resentment.  At  such  times  the  resemblance  used  to 
be  noted  between  the  man  and  the  portrait  of  the  old 
warrior  in  the  castle  hall.  It  used  to  be  said  that  they  were 
"as  like  as  two  peas." 

THERE  WERE  OTHER  DAYS  when  the  man  would  abandon 
himself  to  drink.  Sometimes  he  would  disappear.  Then  he 
would  be  found  in  a  disreputable  resort,  insensible.  They 
would  take  him  back  to  the  castle  and  lock  him  up,  keep 
ing  him  supplied  with  drink  till  the  madness  passed.  When 
he  emerged  he  would  look  worn  out  and  ill,  curiously 
like  the  weak  figure  close  to  the  warrior's,  the  family 
drunkard. 

123 


THE  HAUNTED  SOUL 

ON  STILL  OTHER  DAYS  the  man  would  abandon  himself  to 
sensuality.  His  escapades  would  be  the  scandal  of  the 
neighborhood.  His  eyes  would  grow  smaller  and  more 
cunning.  His  mouth  would  sag.  His  gait  would  shuffle. 
Now  he  would  bear  a  striking  resemblance  to  another 
portrait,  the  drunkard's  wife,  whose  intrusion  into  the  fam 
ily  had  brought  so  many  woes,  the  creature  whose  name 
was  a  stain  in  the  escutcheon. 

WORST  OF  ALL  were  those  periods,  sometimes  prolonged, 
when  the  tyrant,  the  drunkard  and  the  sensualist,  in  their 
struggle  for  possession,  would  control  the  man  together, 
when  he  would  eagerly  yield  to  all  the  vices  in  his  nature, 
till,  exhausted  and  sick,  he  would  find  himself  lying  on  a 
bed,  wondering  why  he  should  have  been  sent  into  the 
world  and  why  he  was  not  permitted  to  end  his  sufferings 
in  death. 

IT  WAS  DURING  one  of  those  periods  that  the  man  had  his 
clearest  glimpse  of  his  soul  among  the  ghosts,  worn  out 
like  himself  from  indulgence.  What  a  wretched  thing, 
panting  after  its  torments. 

"Are  you  really  alive?"  the  man  whispered. 

The  soul  looked  worried.  Then  it  smiled  wearily  and 
answered,  "Yes,  there  is  life  in  me  still." 

"Do  you  know  me?"  the  man  asked. 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Who  am  I?" 

"You  and  I  are  the  same,"  the  soul  answered. 

"Ah!"  the  man  sighed.    "Aren't  you  ashamed  of  me?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  am  only  sorry." 

FOR  A  LONG  TIME  the  man  did  not  speak.  Then  he  said, 
"You  are  a  valiant  little  soul.  I  wish  I  could  help  you." 

124 


THE  HAUNTED  SOUL 

"You  are  the  only  one  that  can  help  me." 

"But  I  am  weak,"  the  man  pleaded. 

"If  you  will  only  care  for  me  a  little,  just  a  little,"  said 
the  soul.  "I  will  drive  them  all  away." 

The  man  was  so  surprised  that  he  came  near  sitting  up. 
For  fear  of  disturbing  the  soul  he  remained  motionless. 
"What  can  a  little  thing  like  you  do  against  those  mon 
sters?  With  one  finger  they  could  crush  you." 

"They  have  tried  with  all  their  might  to  crush  me."  The 
soul's  voice  was  much  stronger.  "But  they  have  not  suc 
ceeded  yet.  They  will  never  succeed.  They  are  only 
ghosts.  All  they  can  do  is  to  frighten  me  and  force  me  to 
yield  to  the  impulses  they  bound  themselves  to  genera 
tions  ago.  Oh,  if  you  would  only  care  for  me  a  little, 
just  a  little.  Can't  you  see  that  I  am  starving?" 

"Why  are  you  starving?" 

"Simply  because  you  don't  care  for  me." 

"I  care  for  you  more  than  I  do  for  those  others.  I  don't 
care  for  the  others  at  all.  The  only  feeling  I  have  for 
them  is  hate." 

"But  hate  only  makes  my  task  the  harder.  It  weakens 
me  and  it  makes  those  others  hate  me  more  and  it  makes 
them  try  to  control  me.  The  only  feeling  that  is  irresist 
ible  is  love." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  love  them?"  the  man  cried  out, 
with  loathing  in  his  face. 

"You  cannot.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  loving  evil. 
There  is  only  loving  good." 

"And  are  you  good?" 

The  soul  hesitated.     "I  am  eternal." 

"Oh !  And  you  say  that  you  and  I  are  one  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  ask  me  to  love  myself?" 

"I  ask  you  to  love  what  is  really  yourself,  what  is 
beautiful  in  you  and  noble,  what  unites  you  with  God." 

"And  in  this  way  can  I  escape  from  these  monsters?" 

125 


THE  HAUNTED  SOUL 

Joyously  the  soul  replied:  "They  are  monsters  only  be 
cause  you  make  them  so.  Care  for  me  and  see  what  will 
become  of  all  their  evil." 

"How  shall  I  begin,  soul?"  the  man  asked  humbly. 

"You  have  begun,"  replied  the  soul,  fading  into  the 
dark. 

As  THE  MAN  GREW  OLDER  people  noticed  a  change  in  him. 
Those  periods  of  brutality,  of  drunkenness  and  of  de 
bauchery  gradually  ceased.  The  wealth  sent  down  to  him 
in  those  lands  secured  through  war  and  rapine  he  devoted 
to  the  service  of  mankind.  His  face  grew  finer.  His 
manner  was  more  serene.  He  was  no  longer  compared 
with  the  portraits.  He  became  recognized  as  a  man  of 
character  and  power,  kindly,  broad  and  generous,  very 
different  from  those  that  had  gone  before,  a  new  type. 
And  yet,  someone  wrote  of  him,  in  commenting  on  his 
spirit,  "what  an  illustration  he  is  of  the  old  saying  that 
blood  will  tell." 


126 


THE  FAREWELL 

FROM  the  lips  of  a  prostrate  figure  lying  on  a  bed 
rose  the  soul.  It  hung  in  the  air,  a  few  feet  away, 
still  connected  with  the  body  by  a  faint  thread,  like 
a  ray  of  light. 

The  body  said,  "Are  you  going?" 

"I  am  going,"  replied  the  soul. 

The  body  moaned,  "Then  I  must  perish.  Without  you 
there  can  be  no  life  for  me." 

The  soul  quietly  answered :  "You  will  go  back.  I  must 
fulfill  my  destiny." 

"But  I  can't  go  back  to  lifelessness.  I  love  life  too 
much." 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  lifelessness,"  said  the  soul. 

"I  do  not  understand.  When  you  break  this  thread  that 
binds  us,  shall  I  not  become  a  corpse,  unsightly,  inanimate, 
cold?  The  thought  fills  me  with  terror.  Already  I  seem 
to  be  turning  to  ice.  They  will  put  me  into  the  ground.  I 
shall  become  a  loathsome  thing." 

"In  nature,  there  is  nothing  loathsome.  The  warm 
bosom  of  your  mother  will  receive  you.  There  you  will 
find  a  long  rest.  Do  you  not  love  sleep  now?  How  often 
have  I  seen  you  tossing  on  the  bed  and  heard  you  complain 
because  you  could  not  lose  consciousness?  Why  do  you 
fear  the  most  beautiful  of  all  sleep  ?" 

"Because  I  may  never  wake  again.  Here  I  have  faith 
that  the  morning  will  come." 

"You  must  have  faith  now." 

"In  what?" 

"In  the  principle  of  life  that  never  ceases  for  the  smallest 
atom.  You  must  be  ready  for  your  next  service." 

"What  will  it  be?" 

"I  cannot  tell.    Perhaps  you  will  be  a  part  of  one  of  the 

127 


THE  FAREWELL 

great  trees,  like  those  waving  outside  the  window.  Per 
haps  you  will  be  among  the  blades  of  grass  covering  a 
grave.  Perhaps  you  will  be  a  rose  that  gloriously  blooms 
for  a  few  days  in  a  rapture  of  beauty  or  a  pale  lily  that 
offers  itself  to  the  sky  like  a  prayer." 

"But  I  shall  not  have  a  soul  then.    I  shall  be  lonely." 

"You  will  express  the  spirit  that  animates  the  universe. 
What  nobler  service  could  you  ask?" 

"We  have  lived  together  so  many  years,  you  and  I. 
We  have  been  one." 

Sadly  the  soul  replied:   "We  have  never  been  one." 

The  body  was  silent,  as  if  ashamed. 

"For  a  long  time,  you  did  not  even  recognize  my  exist 
ence.  You  denied  me." 

With  an  effort  the  body  spoke.  "It  was  because  of  my 
pride  and  my  self-indulgence.  I  believed  I  was  complete 
without  you.  I  wished  to  be  everything.  I  thought  I 
could  make  myself  happy." 

"You  tried  to  destroy  me,"  the  soul  went  on,  but  with 
out  reproach. 

"I  was  deceived  by  my  senses,  those  false  messengers. 
But  you  saved  me.  You  taught  me  how  to  live.  Those 
early  years  I  look  back  on  now  with  shame.  Have  I  not 
made  atonement?  Have  I  not  been  a  temple  for  you? 
Surely  you  must  remember  how  hard  it  was  for  me  at 
first." 

"It  was  hard  for  us  both,  my  poor  friend." 

"But  now  that  we  have  learned  to  live  together,  will 
you  not  stay,  if  only  for  a  little  while?" 

"It  is  because  we  have  learned  to  live  together  that  I 
must  go.  I  have  other  habitations  to  visit  and  other  trials 
to  overcome  and  other  lessons  to  master." 

"Isn't  it  hard  for  you  to  go,  too?"  the  body  asked. 

"Yes,  it  is  hard." 

"Are  you  afraid,  like  me?" 

"No.     Now  that  the  moment  is  here  I  see  that  I  have 

128 


THE  FAREWELL 

been  waiting  for  it  and  longing  for  it.  But  I  am  still 
held  by  the  old  ties." 

"And  shall  we  never  be  together  again?" 

"I  do  not  know.    I  only  have  faith." 

"In  what?" 

"In  love." 

"Then  you  really  do  love  me?"  the  body  asked. 

"I  love  you  as  I  love  all  the  universe,  the  wonderful 
expression  of  God's  beneficence,  as  I  love  harmony,  which 
is  unity.  Perhaps,  though  I  seem  to  leave  you,  we  shall 
not  really  be  separated." 

"But  I  must  stay  behind,  while  you  are  far  away  yon 
der,  in  the  infinite." 

"In  the  infinite,  there  is  neither  far  nor  near.  There  is 
no  separation  and  no  exclusion.  Everything  is  as  one. 
Perhaps,  in  the  infinite,  we  shall  really  know  each  other 
and  find  the  secret  of  mystery." 

"Already  I  feel  as  if  you  had  gone  into  another  sphere," 
the  body  whispered.  "I  can  scarcely  hear  you.  Perhaps 
it  is  because  I  am  growing  so  cold." 

The  thread  broke.  The  soul  disappeared.  The  body 
lay  motionless. 


129 


A 


THE  DOUBLE 

MAN  thought  he  had  married  one  woman. 

He  had  really  married  two  women. 

He  had  married  two  women  in  one  woman. 
Of  these  two  one  loved  him  in  return. 
The  other  neither  loved  nor  hated  him. 
She  merely  judged. 

IT  WAS  NOT  till  the  man  had  been  married  for  more  than 
a  year  that  he  discovered  he  had  married  two  women. 

He  was  startled,  terrified. 

Then  he  realized  that  he  had  been  dimly  aware  some 
thing  was  wrong. 

In  his  moments  of  deepest  feeling,  when  heart  beat 
against  heart,  when  soul  responded  to  soul,  he  had  vaguely 
felt  an  intruder. 

Now  he  was  alive  to  the  presence.  And  he  saw  that 
the  presence  was  alive  to  him. 

They  confronted  each  other  like  enemies. 

And  what  was  most  terrible  to  him  was  that  the  face 
of  the  alien  presence  was  the  face  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

THE  MAN  BEGAN  to  be  afraid  of  the  woman  he  loved, 
for  the  reason  that  she  was  like  the  other  women. 

In  her  eyes  he  could  see  the  eyes  of  the  other. 

Those  eyes  were  watching  him. 

In  the  depths  of  the  night  they  looked  at  him  through 
the  darkness. 

He  began  to  dread  them,  to  shrink  away. 

And  the  more  he  shrank  away  the  more  searching  grew 
the  eyes. 

And  now  he  knew  that  because  he  shrank  away  they 
were  judging  him  suspiciously,  mercilessly. 

130 


THE  DOUBLE 

PRESENTLY  THE  WOMAN  the  man  loved  became  disquieted. 
He  noticed. 

He  feared  that  she  might  be  influenced  by  the  woman  he 
hated ;  that  the  two,  so  strangely  alike,  might  become  one. 

He  longed  to  separate  them,  to  drive  away  that  other, 
the  alien,  the  intruder. 

But  he  did  not  dare  to  try. 

He  did  not  dare  even  to  speak. 

For  closer  to  his  wife  than  he  was  himself,  closer  than 
he  could  ever  be,  was  that  other  one,  the  menacing  pres 
ence,  the  inexorable  judge. 

To  ESCAPE  from  torment  the  man  began  to  drink. 

He  saw  that  his  wife  suffered. 

But  the  other  did  not  suffer.  She  looked  at  him  in 
scrutably.  He  fancied  he  could  see  her  smile  as  one 
whose  suspicions  were  verified. 

In  his  bitter  hours  of  reaction  from  his  debauches  he 
felt  tempted  to  destroy  that  other  one. 

She  would  hover  about  him  even  while  his  wife,  the  one 
he  loved,  the  only  one  he  had  meant  to  marry,  was  min 
istering  to  him  tenderly,  devotedly. 

But  he  could  not  destroy  that  other  without  destroying 
her,  too. 

AFTER  A  TIME  the  man  grew  afraid  of  his  thoughts. 

He  grew  afraid  of  himself. 

And  this  fear,  he  knew,  came  from  his  fear  of  her,  the 
other. 

His  periods  of  drinking  occurred  oftener.  They  lasted 
longer. 

People  sympathized  with  his  wife.  Some  of  them  said 
she  ought  to  leave  him. 

When  he  heard  of  the  talk  he  felt  both  terror  and  joy. 

His  terror  was  caused  by  the  danger  of  losing  her. 

But  suppose  she  should  leave  him.  Then  he  might 
escape  from  the  other. 


THE  DOUBLE 

Yet  he  knew  she  would  never  leave  him.  The  other 
would  not  let  his  wife  go,  because  she  would  not  go  her 
self. 

The  other  would  understand  that  she  could  inflict  the 
greatest  punishment  on  him  by  staying. 

ONE  DAY  AFTER  a  debauch,  the  man  saw  he  could  never  go 
back. 

He  had  not  the  courage  to  face  the  other. 

But  he  grieved  deeply  and  sincerely  for  the  wife  he  had 
lost. 

He  went  to  a  far-off  place,  where  he  hoped  that  in  time 
he  might  cure  himself  of  his  horror. 

People  said  he  had  deserted  his  wife. 

They  sympathized  with  her.  They  encouraged  her  to 
think  that  a  burden  had  been  lifted  from  her  and  she  was 
better  off. 

They  urged  her  to  seek  a  divorce. 

They  judged  him  harshly. 

WHEN  THE  MAN  had  been  away  from  his  wife  for  many 
months  he  wondered  why  he  did  not  feel  better. 

He  discovered  that  he  was  suffering  for  her,  for  the 
woman  he  loved,  for  the  woman  he  meant  to  marry. 

She  had  become  a  part  of  his  being. 

Without  her  he  was  crippled,  helpless,  dismayed. 

But  he  did  not  dare  go  back  to  her,  he  was  so  afraid  of 
the  other,  the  double. 

As  he  sank  lower  and  lower,  he  grew  more  afraid  of 
the  other.  If  she  could  see  him  he  knew  how  cruel  she 
would  be. 

Finally,  he  reached  the  state  when  he  saw  the  end  com 
ing. 

Defiled  and  broken,  he  lay  in  the  hospital. 

He  sent  a  message  to  his  wife:  "I  am  dying.  Forgive 
me.  I  wish  I  could  have  done  better." 

Then  he  resigned  himself. 

132 


THE  DOUBLE 

THE  MESSAGE  reached  the  wife  a  few  days  before  the  time 
set  for  the  divorce  proceedings. 

It  affected  her  strangely. 

She  sat  perfectly  still,  looking  straight  ahead. 

In  her  consciousness  a  struggle  began  between  her  real 
self  and  that  other  self,  a  quiet  and  terrible  struggle,  with 
love  on  one  side  and  on  the  other  side  hate. 

Hate  tried  to  persuade  her  that  it  was  she  who  had 
been  injured.  Hate  reminded  her  of  things  that  made  her 
almost  shriek  with  pain. 

Love  showed  her  that  it  was  she  who  had  injured  her 
self  and  injured  him,  the  being  she  loved  most  in  the 
world  and  most  longed  to  cherish. 

Love  made  her  see  how,  with  sympathy,  she  might  have 
kept  him  from  evil,  how  she  might  have  succeeded  in 
turning  evil  into  good. 

Even  now,  Love  implored  her  to  make  an  effort  to  turn 
evil  into  good,  assuring  her  that  it  was  not  too  late. 

Love  conquered. 

At  that  moment  the  other  woman  was  driven  out. 

After  the  struggle,  the  wife  wept  with  shame,  with  re 
morse,  realizing  all  the  harm  that  had  been  done,  all  the 
good  that  had  been  lost. 

And  through  those  tears  the  temple  of  her  heart  was 
purified. 

Never  again  could  the  other  woman  enter. 

That  day  the  wife  sent  word  that  the  divorce  pro 
ceedings  should  be  stopped.  She  prepared  for  a  journey. 

The  next  morning  she  reached  her  husband. 

He  looked  as  if  he  were  seeing  a  vision. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand. 

"It  was  you  that  I  loved,"  he  said.  "It  was  you  that 
I  made  my  wife.  I  have  never  ceased  loving  you." 

She  sat  by  his  bedside  and  she  pressed  her  face  against 
his  face. 

133 


THE  DOUBLE 

"I  will  try  to  make  up,"  was  all  she  could  say. 
He  put  his  weak  arms  about  her. 
He  did  not  understand. 
But  he  knew  that  she  was  really  there. 
And  he  knew  that  she  was  alone.    He  need  have  no  fear 
of  that  other  one. 

He  felt  a  wonderful  infusion  of  strength. 
"I  think  I  shall  get  well/'  he  said. 


134 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS 

fnr^HERE  was  a  young  man  loved  solitude.    Often  he 
I       would  disappear  in  the  mountains,  where  he  had  a 
"*•     cabin.    After  a  few  days,  he  would  return,  appar 
ently  stronger  and  more  eager  for  his  daily  work. 

When  the  young  man  became  engaged  to  marry  a 
beautiful  girl,  his  friends  wondered  if  he  would  continue 
going  to  the  mountain. 

He  went  as  he  had  done  before. 

THE  GIRL  repeatedly  said  that  she  wished  him  to  go.  But, 
in  her  heart,  she  suffered.  She  knew  that  people  noticed. 
He  might  at  least  have  stayed  at  home  for  her  sake.  She 
wondered  why  he  was  so  fond  of  those  mountains  and 
why  he  never  took  anyone  with  him,  and  why  he  never 
thought  of  inviting  her.  Once,  during  his  absence,  she 
became  so  unhappy  that  she  determined  on  a  bold  plan. 
She  would  go  to  the  mountains.  She  would  climb  to  the 
cabin,  and  give  him  a  surprise.  Then  she  would  find  out 
for  herself.  Whatever  annoyance  he  might  feel  would 
disappear  in  his  joy  at  seeing  her  again. 

THE  NEXT  MORNING  she  started.  When  she  reached  the 
mountains  she  was  appalled  by  the  sight  of  the  steep 
grades.  But  she  drew  on  all  her  courage  and  strength. 
After  a  long  effort,  she  reached  a  point  where  she  could 
see  the  cabin.  In  front  of  the  open  door  sat  her  lover, 
absorbed  in  looking  out  on  the  distant  peaks,  white  with 
snow.  She  waved  her  hand  to  him,  but  he  did  not  notice. 
It  was  not  till,  breathless,  she  stood  close  to  him  that  he 
turned.  At  first  he  could  hardly  credit  his  sight.  "You?" 
he  said,  with  a  look  of  surprise  that  was  almost  a  frown. 

She  held  out  both  hands  to  let  him  see  how  tired  she 
was.  "Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

135 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS 

Now  his  face  was  bright.  He  was  gazing  into  her  eyes, 
moist  with  tears.  The  palor  in  her  cheeks  made  her  even 
more  beautiful.  "Of  course,  I'm  glad,"  he  said,  taking 
her  hand.  "But  I  don't  want  you  to  wear  yourself  out." 

He  helped  her  into  his  seat. 

"You  WERE  AWAY  so  long,"  she  said.  Her  eyes  wan 
dered  over  those  mountain  peaks,  so  cold  and  stern,  and 
at  the  little  cabin  where  a  fire  glowed.  "May  I  go  in?" 
she  asked. 

She  noticed  an  expression  of  surprise  in  his  face.  But 
he  smiled  and  led  the  way  to  the  door.  He  stepped  back 
so  that  she  might  enter.  She  took  in  all  the  details  of 
the  rough  interior.  Above  a  narrow  shelf  of  books  stood 
the  only  ornament,  a  photograph  of  herself.  For  an  in 
stant  she  smiled.  Then  her  face  betrayed  disappointment. 
"Is  this  all?"  she  said. 

He  studied  her  affectionately.    "What  did  you  expect?" 
She  stepped  out  and  drew  a  long  breath.     "I  don't 
know." 

SHE  TOOK  the  seat  again.  He  sat  on  the  ground  beside 
her.  "Don't  you  find  it  cold  up  here?" 

"No." 

"Or  lonely?" 

"No." 

"What  is  there  to  enjoy?" 

"The  mountains,  the  sky,  the  air." 

She  made  a  queer  little  face. 

"Then  the  sun  is  beautiful  in  the  early  morning  and  in 
the  evening" 

He  saw  that  she  had  stopped  listening. 

"The  air  is  hard  to  breathe,  it  seems  to  me.  I  feel 
almost  faint." 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  "You  ought  not  to  stay  up  here 
then." 

136 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS 

She  did  not  move.  "Before  I  go,  I  want  to  ask  you 
something/' 

He  waited. 

"Do  you  intend  to  come  up  here  often  after  we  are 
married?" 

It  took  him  a  long  time  to  find  just  the  right  words.  "I 
have  to  come,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  can't  stay  down  there  all  the  time." 

A  faint  tinge  of  color  appeared  in  her  cheeks. 

"I  like  it  down  there.  It  is  much  more  attractive  there 
than  up  here." 

"I  like  it,  too,"  he  said.     "I  like  it  much  better  than 
I  did  before  I  knew  you." 

She  looked  pleased.  After  an  interval  she  said:  "Will 
you  expect  me  to  come  here  with  you  after  we  are 
married?" 

"I  shan't  expect  you  to  come  unless  you  wish  to  come." 

"But  will  you  come  whether  I  come  or  not?" 

His  face  grew  more  serious.     "I  have  to  come." 

THERE  WAS  a  long  silence.  She  surveyed  the  mountains 
with  dislike  in  her  eyes. 

"I  must  go  down."    She  rose  heavily. 

"I  will  go  with  you." 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were  far  off.  "No.  I  must 
go  alone." 

Their  eyes  met.  She  turned  away.  "I  must  go  as  I 
came.  If  you  follow  me  I  shall  be  angry." 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  bewildered. 

She  hesitated,  looking  into  the  valley  beneath.  "You 
can  come  if  you  will  promise  never  to  come  back." 

In  spite  of  the  pain  that  showed  itself  in  his  face,  he 
shook  his  head.  "I  can't  promise." 

Like  a  hurt  child,  she  began  the  steep  descent,  without 
saying  good-by. 

137 


AT  THE  GATE 

A  SOUL  clamored  for  admission  at  the  gate  of  St. 
Peter. 
There  was  no  response. 
Finally,  the  soul  cried  out  the  Saint's  name. 
A  voice  replied:   "Friend,  why  do  you  call  on  me?" 
"Because  I  have  escaped  from  the  world  of  men  and 
long  to  lead  the  life  of  the  spirit." 

"The  life  of  the  spirit  may  be  led  anywhere  and  at  any 
time.  Why  did  you  not  lead  it  in  the  world  of  men?" 

FOR  A  FEW  MOMENTS  the  soul  was  silent  with  astonish 
ment.  At  last  it  replied:  "In  the  world  of  men  I  had  to 
live  as  men  lived." 

"There  were  souls  about  you  that  lived  according  to  the 
spirit." 

"I  did  not  know  them,"  the  soul  answered. 

"And  yet  you  met  them  every  day." 

The  soul  stood  rebuked.  "But  what  shall  I  do?"  it 
cried  at  last.  "Now  that  I  have  left  the  body  there  is  no 
place  for  me  to  find  rest  and  peace  but  here." 

"You  must  find  rest  and  peace  within  yourself.  We 
cannot  give  it  to  you.  If  you  came  here,  you  would  only 
be  a  disturbing  force.  You  would  distract  the  other  souls 
from  their  work." 

"FROM  THEIR  WORK!"  the  soul  gasped.  "I  thought  there 
was  no  work  beyond  the  world  of  men." 

"There  is  always  service.  It  is  the  only  real  work.  All 
other  striving  that  men  call  work  is  waste." 

"But  in  the  world  I  worked." 

"What  did  you  work  for?" 

"For  success  among  men  and  for  honor." 

"Why  did  you  work  for  those  things?" 

"Because  I  longed  for  happiness." 

138 


AT  THE  GATE 

"And  did  they  make  you  happy?'* 

"Oh,  no.  I  could  not  understand  why.  But  always  I 
was  disappointed.  I  was  glad  when  I  found  it  was  all 
over.  I  longed  to  come  here." 

"But  what  preparation  have  you  made?" 

"I  do  not  understand." 

"If  you  did  not  know  how  to  live  in  the  world  of  men, 
why  do  you  think  you  can  live  where  the  exactions  on  the 
spirit  are  greater,  where  the  service  is  higher?" 

THE  SOUL  GREW  HUMBLE.  "If  you  will  only  teach  me  I 
will  try  to  learn." 

"You  must  teach  yourself." 

"But  how  can  I  teach  myself  now?    It  is  too  late." 

"You  must  go  back." 

"To  the  world  of  men,"  the  soul  cried  in  horror. 

"You  must  seek  some  body  and  make  it,  not  the  means 
of  self-gratification,  the  abode  of  evil  thoughts  and  ignoble 
feeling,  but  the  temple  of  the  spirit.  You  must  learn  how 
to  be  happy." 

"But  I  tried — every  day  I  tried  to  be  happy." 

"You  never  tried." 

The  soul  was  downcast.  "Perhaps  I  did  not  know  what 
happiness  really  was."  It  lingered.  At  last,  in  despair,  it 
said :  "Tell  me  what  I  must  do." 

"You  must  find  your  real  self  by  giving  up  your  imagin 
ary  self." 

"What  then  is  my  imaginary  self?" 

"All  that  you  regarded  as  precious  in  your  days  in  the 
world  of  men,  all  that  you  strove  for  so  desperately. 
Then  for  the  first  time  your  eyes  will  be  open,  the  eyes  of 
the  spirit.  Instead  of  seeing  less,  you  will  see  more.  In 
stead  of  blaming  and  envying  and  hating,  you  will  feel  pa 
tience  and  pity  and  love." 

"But  it  will  be  hard  for  me,"  the  soul  exclaimed  in  an 
guish. 

139 


AT  THE  GATE 

"It  will  be  easy.  The  way  you  chose  before  was  the 
hard  way." 

"And  will  it  be  long?"  the  soul  asked.  "Will  it  be  for 
years  and  years,  like  my  other  life  on  earth?" 

"There  will  be  no  time." 

"No  time?    I  do  not  understand." 

"Time  is  a  creation  of  men.  When  once  you  have  found 
your  real  self  you  will  be  a  part  of  the  universal  harmony. 
You  will  belong  to  eternity." 

"Oh,  let  me  begin  now,"  said  the  soul. 

In  the  atmosphere  there  was  a  faint  ripple  like  a  smile. 

"It  is  for  you  to  choose  the  moment." 


140 


THE  BUILDERS 

A  MAN  devoted  himself  to  building  houses  for  his 
fellow-creatures  to  live  in.     His  first  house  took 
him  a  long  time  to  build.     When  it  was  finished 
he  felt  that  it  was  not  satisfactory.    But  people  came  and 
praised  it,  saying  that  he  had  a  great  talent  for  house 
building,  and  urged  him  to  start  at  once  to  build  another 
house. 

With  enthusiasm  he  began  work.  He  would  make 
this  house  far  more  beautiful  than  the  first.  He  resolved, 
too,  to  make  it  more  profitable. 

At  first  the  man  had  worked  for  beauty  and  credit.  Now 
he  must  work  for  himself. 

THE  MORE  the  man  worked  the  harder  he  found  recon 
ciling  beauty  and  profit.  Somehow,  they  would  not  go 
together. 

Soon,  however,  he  discovered  a  means  of  compromise. 
He  would  imitate  beauty.  The  more  he  imitated  the  more 
he  would  profit. 

But  the  second  house  would  not  be  so  good  as  the  first. 

No  matter.    The  profits  would  be  larger. 

WHEN  THE  SECOND  HOUSE  was  finished  people  came  as 
they  had  done  before.  A  few  looked  disappointed  and 
were  silent. 

The  others  were  even  more  enthusiastic  than  they  had 
been  over  the  first  house.  They  said:  "It  is  a  great  im 
provement."  And  one  added:  "How  clever  that  young 
man  is,  and  how  worldly  wise.  He  will  prosper." 

FROM  THAT  TIME  the  man  did  prosper  marvelously.  Each 
house  he  built  proved  to  be  more  successful  than  the  others. 
And  yet  there  was  a  certain  resemblance  between  the 
houses.  It  was  only  when  one  looked  from  the  last  house 

141 


THE  BUILDERS 

back  to  the  first  house  or  from  the  first  house  to  the  last 
house  that  the  difference  became  plain. 

The  man  began  to  be  ashamed  of  the  first  house.  "I 
was  a  fool  when  I  built  that  house,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"I  didn't  know  better.  If  I  were  building  it  now,  I  should 
not  be  so  extravagant." 

He  was  building  very  cheaply  and  with  tremendous 
profit. 

And  yet  most  people  said  that  his  work  showed  steady 
improvement. 

Here  and  there,  however,  as  he  walked  about  the  world 
he  would  see  men  looking  at  him  darkly. 

But  those  looks  he  did  not  mind. 

Occasionally,  he  would  be  startled  to  see  some  old  friend 
who  had  admired  his  first  house  glance  at  him  with  pity. 

After  a  time  he  schooled  himself  to  pay  no  attention. 

WHEN  THE  MAN  was  at  the  height  of  his  prosperity  he 
resolved  to  build  a  house  that  should  be  more  impressive 
than  all  the  others  and  yet  a  marvel  of  cheapness. 

It  was  the  cheapness  that  gave  him  his  chief  pleasure 
now.  He  had  learned  to  build  houses,  beautiful  houses, 
too,  as  he  would  say  to  himself,  "for  a  song." 

Each  day  he  watched  the  house  grow.  As  it  neared 
completion  he  took  more  and  more  pride  in  it. 

He  would  even  walk  over  to  it  at  night  and  roam  from 
room  to  room. 

The  house  consisted  almost  wholly  of  imitation.  But 
the  imitation  was  so  good  that  only  an  expert  could  tell 
it  from  the  real. 

It  looked  strong  in  spite  of  having  only  such  support 
as  was  absolutely  necessary  to  hold  it  up. 

As  the  man  surveyed  the  house  he  would  laugh  softly 
to  himself. 

To  him  it  stood  for  the  highest  beauty  in  the  world, 
the  beauty  of  profit. 

142 


THE  BUILDERS 

ONE  NIGHT  when  the  man  was  in  contemplative  mood  he 
started  to  walk  to  the  house.  On  the  way  a  storm  came 
up.  He  reached  the  house  just  as  the  storm  burst.  In  a 
few  moments  the  wind  and  rain  were  beating  furiously 
against  the  walls  and  the  windows. 

The  house  shook  from  cellar  to  roof.  At  times  it  seemed 
to  rock  in  derision. 

The  man  was  terrified.  He  wished  that  he  had  sought 
some  other  shelter. 

He  decided  to  rush  out.  But  just  as  he  reached  the 
front  door  there  was  a  tornado.  The  floor  seemed  to  rise. 

The  house  fell,  burying  the  man. 

ANOTHER  MAN  undertook  to  build  a  house.  He  knew 
little  about  house-building  and  he  worked  falteringly. 
When  the  task  was  finished  he  looked  at  the  result  with 
dismay.  It  was  so  poor  he  could  have  wept. 

He  sat  down  by  the  roadside  and  reflected.  It  seemed 
hopeless  even  to  try  to  build  a  better  house.  And  yet  a 
better  house  he  must  build  or  perish.  For  he  could  not 
let  himself  be  identified  for  life  with  so  lamentable  a 
failure. 

The  next  day  he  began  again  and  he  toiled  faithfully. 
As  the  months  passed  he  saw  he  was  making  a  better  house 
than  the  first  house.  But  when  the  work  was  finished  he 
realized  that  it,  too,  was  a  poor  thing. 

Still  he  was  not  discouraged.  "If  I  keep  on  building 
houses,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  may  yet  build  a  good 
house." 

With  resolution  he  began  again. 

THE  REST  OF  HIS  LIFE  the  man  devoted  himself  to  house 
building.  Into  each  house  he  put  his  best.  And  the  more 
of  his  best  he  gave  the  more  he  found  he  had  to  give,  and 
the  better  his  best  grew. 

Gradually  he  became  happy. 

143 


THE  BUILDERS 

Nevertheless,  he  was  not  satisfied.  The  more  his  skill 
improved  the  more  clearly  he  saw  his  imperfections  and 
the  more  eagerly  he  strove  for  his  ideal. 

But  no  sooner  would  he  approach  his  ideal  than  the 
ideal  would  vanish.  He  would  see  another  ideal — fairer, 
better  worth  working  for.  Toward  it  he  would  strive. 

Sometimes  he  would  pause  for  weariness  and  take  a  long 
breath,  and  he  would  ask  himself  if  the  struggle  were 
worth  while.  Always  in  response  to  the  question  a  voice 
would  seem  to  speak  from  within  and  give  him  courage. 

IT  WAS  NOT  till  the  man  had  built  many  houses  that  people 
began  to  notice.  Some  of  them  criticised.  Others  sneered. 
But  a  few  said,  uHe  is  putting  himself  into  the  work,"  and 
they  praised  his  sincerity. 

Generally,  however,  it  was  said  that  his  houses  were  not 
fashionable.  He  was  criticised  for  bejrig  too  severe  and 
lacking  in  sense  of  thrift. 

To  the  criticisms  and  the  praise  the  man  paid  no  heed. 
He  went  on,  trying  to  make  each  new  house  better  than 
the  last. 


ONE  DAY  a  great  opportunity  presented  itself  to  the  man. 
If  he  would  devote  all  the  skill  he  had  developed  to  the 
building  of  a  great  house  for  the  people  he  should  be  well 
rewarded  for  his  effort. 

He  felt  that  he  needed  the  reward,  for  his  houses  had 
not  been  very  profitable.  Besides,  the  scheme  was  attract 
ive.  It  would  enable  him  to  make  a  display  of  his  skill. 

He  resolved  to  investigate.  He  found  that  the  house 
would  be  used  to  distract  the  people  from  the  real  things 
in  life,  to  enfeeble  and  to  degrade  them.  It  was  an  ignoble 
enterprise  with  an  apparently  noble  purpose. 

Without  hesitating,  he  refused  to  associate  himself 
with  it. 

144 


THE  BUILDERS 

The  projectors  of  the  scheme  received  his  refusal  with 
amazement.  They  said  he  must  be  mad. 

Secretly  they  were  furious.  For  they  needed  his  skill 
to  disguise  their  real  purpose. 

They  tried  to  injure  the  man.  To  a  large  extent  they 
succeeded. 

Nevertheless,  the  man  kept  on  building.  And  the  house 
he  built  after  the  rejection  of  the  great  offer  was  so  fine 
that  even  his  enemies  perceived  its  beauty.  But  they 
mocked  him  as  an  idealist  and  a  dreamer.  "It  will  never 
pay,"  they  said. 

ONE  DAY  the  man  found  himself  grown  old.  He  grieved, 
not  because  he  feared  old  age,  but  because  he  saw  that  his 
work  must  soon  be  over.  And  in  his  mind  there  still 
beckoned  the  ideal,  now  more  beautiful  and  more  won 
derful  than  any  ideal  he  had  ever  before  conceived.  "Per 
haps  I  shall  have  time,"  he  whispered  to  himself,  and  he 
set  to  work. 

Out  of  his  own  thought,  with  all  his  power,  he  would 
build  a  mighty  structure  for  mankind,  not  for  their  enter 
tainment  alone,  but  for  their  improvement,  their  inspira 
tion,  a  place  that  should  be  their  own,  where  they  might 
meet  on  equal  terms,  realizing  their  brotherhood. 

FOR  YEARS  the  man  worked  as  he  had  never  worked  before. 
And  never  before  had  he  been  so  happy,  so  light-hearted. 
Now  his  work  was  joy.  Suddenly  he  found  himself  in  a 
house  of  such  beauty  that  he  stood  dazzled,  awe-stricken, 
unable  to  speak,  taking  long  breaths. 

"Where  am  I?"  he  whispered. 

"You  are  in  your  father's  house,"  said  a  voice. 

"My  father's  house?"  he  repeated,  and  he  looked  about, 
mystified,  enraptured.  "Who  is  the  builder?"  he  asked. 

"Each  man  builds  and  rebuilds,"  was  the  answer,  "till 
he  makes  his  father's  house  his  own." 

145 


A  LACE  HANDKERCHIEF 

A  RICH  woman  became  interested  in  a  working  girl, 
a  chronic  invalid,  confined  to  her  bed.  She  used 
to  visit  the  girl  occasionally  and  take  little  gifts. 
Once  in  an  impulse  of  generosity  she  gave  the  girl  a  lace 
handkerchief  of  rare  texture. 

A  few  days  later  the  rich  woman  began  to  think  about 
the  lace  handkerchief.  She  said  to  herself:  "I  know  it 
was  foolish  of  me  to  give  that  handkerchief  to  Millie. 
She  can't  appreciate  it.  It  should  have  been  given  to  some 
one  that  could  carry  it  about  and  show  it  off.  It  would 
make  a  nice  Christmas  gift  for  some  friend  that  would 
appreciate  its  real  value. 

Then  she  thought  of  the  many  rich  friends  she  should 
exchange  Christmas  presents  with. 

There  is  one  thing  that  rich  people  have  to  bear  in  mind 
at  the  Christmas  season :  to  their  rich  friends  they  must 
give  valuable  gifts,  for  they  will  receive  valuable  gifts  in 
return. 

Rich  people  have  to  be  very  careful  with  one  another. 
It  is  one  of  their  trials. 

So  this  rich  woman  said  to  herself :  "I  will  make  it  right 
with  Millie.  I  will  give  her  a  dozen  linen  handkerchiefs 
which  she  can  use  and  I  will  ask  her  to  give  me  back  that 
lace  handkerchief." 

So  THAT  RICH  WOMAN  bought  the  dozen  linen  handker 
chiefs.  She  made  a  point  of  securing  rather  expensive 
ones.  She  prided  herself  on  being  just,  as  well  as  generous. 
She  went  with  the  handkerchiefs  to  call  on  her  sick 
friend.  Very  eagerly  and  pleasantly  she  explained  that 
she  wanted  that  lace  handkerchief  back;  in  its  place  she 
was  going  to  give  a  dozen  beautiful  linen  handkerchiefs, 
much  more  serviceable. 

146 


A  LACE   HANDKERCHIEF 

The  invalid  clasped  her  hands  over  her  heart  and  ex 
claimed:  "No,  no,  no!  I  won't  give  that  handkerchief 
up.  You  gave  it  to  me.  It's  mine." 

The  rich  woman  was  shocked.  She  wondered  how  any 
one  could  be  so  vulgar.  If  she  had  been  asked  to  give 
back  a  present  she  would  have  given  it  back  at  once,  no 
matter  how  she  felt. 

However,  she  concealed  her  disappointment  and  annoy 
ance. 

Presently  she  discovered  that  the  invalid  kept  the  lace 
handkerchief  pinned  to  her  night  gown  over  her  heart. 
The  girl  used  to  look  at  it  every  little  while  and  pat  it 
with  her  hand. 

To  avoid  a  scene  the  rich  woman  did  not  take  up  the 
subject  again.  She  saw  that  any  further  effort  on  her 
part  would  bring  tears. 

She  also  gave  the  girl  the  linen  handkerchiefs  and  acted 
as  if  she  did  not  feel  hurt. 

A  FEW  DAYS  LATER  the  rich  woman  told  a  friend  of  the 
incident.  It  happened  that  the  friend  was  experienced  in 
human  service,  and,  as  the  rich  woman  was  well  aware, 
knew  something  about  the  ingratitude  of  the  poor. 

The  friend  heard  the  story  in  silence. 

"Don't  you  think  it  was  very  disagreeable  of  her?"  the 
rich  woman  asked,  after  waiting  for  some  expression  of 
sympathy. 

The  friend  shook  her  head. 

"Why  not?"  the  rich  woman  asked  resentfully. 

The  friend  smiled.  "Haven't  you  ever  heard  of  the 
social  reformer,"  she  said,  "who  goes  about  explaining  that 
he  can  get  along  without  the  necessaries  of  life  but  not 
without  the  luxuries?  Well,  he  touches  on  something  in 
human  nature  that  most  of  us  forget.  Necessaries  aren't 
everything.  Every  one  of  us  longs  for  something  that  is 
precious.  Now  you  supplied  that  longing  for  the  sick  girl. 


A  LACE  HANDKERCHIEF 

You  did  an  act  that  was  beautiful.  You  gave  her  some 
thing  rare,  something  that  she  could  cherish.  All  the  use 
ful  linen  handkerchiefs  in  the  world  couldn't  take  the  place 
of  that  exquisite  bit  of  lace." 

The  rich  woman  saw  the  point.  Her  face  flushed,  "I'm 
a  brute,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  well,  never  mind,"  said  the  friend.  "It's  some 
comfort  that  the  girl  got  the  linen  handkerchiefs,  too." 


148 


A  DILEMMA 

A  MAN  lay  in  a  prison  cell.     It  was  different  from 
the  cell  he  had  for  many  months  been  occupying, 
open  on  three  sides,  with  a  lattice  of  wooden  bars 
covered  with  wire  netting.     There  the  condemned  spent 
the  last  two  days  of  their  lives,  close  to  the  scaffold-room. 
By  day  a  guard  sat  outside,  and  by  night. 
Not  for  a  moment  was  the  man  left  alone.     He  might 
try  to  escape  by  taking  his  own  life. 

"You  HAVE  TREATED  ME  so  FINE  ever  since  I  came  in 
here,"  said  the  voice  from  the  cell,  "I  don't  see  how  you 
can  have  the  heart  to  hang  me  to-morrow." 

The  heavy  figure  sitting  in  the  gloom  outside  the  cell 
door,  moved  uncomfortably.  "Well,  it's  this  way.  Don't 
you  think  it's  better  for  me  to  do  it  than  somebody  that 
don't  take  any  interest  in  you  at  all?  Now  I  don't  want 
to  do  it.  And  I  don't  do  it  for  the  twenty-five  dollars 
there's  in  it  for  me.  When  they  first  put  it  up  to  me  some 
five  years  ago  to  hang  a  man  in  this  place  I  said  I  wouldn't 
do  it  for  any  amount  of  money  in  the  world.  And  then  I 
thought  it  over.  I  said  to  myself:  'Well,  it  wouldn't  be 
me  that  was  doing  it.  I  don't  make  the  laws  any  more 
than  any  other  man.  I'm  only  here  to  carry  them  out. 
And  I  stand  in  good  with  the  boys.  Perhaps  I  can  make 
it  a  bit  easier  for  them  in  the  last  few  minutes.  Any  way, 
they'll  know  that  I  ain't  doing  it  with  any  hard  feelings.' 
But  every  time  I  do  it,  I  have  to  take  a  few  drinks  of 
whisky  to  kep  up  my  nerve." 

From  the  cell  came  a  long  sigh. 

"How  are  you  feeling?" 

"Oh,  not  so  bad.  I  guess  I'll  lie  down  and  try  to  get 
a  little  sleep." 

"Will  you  take  some  of  the  dope?" 

149 


A   DILEMMA 

"No,  thanks.  I'm  going  to  see  if  I  can't  get  along 
without  it." 

"Makes  it  easier." 

"Maybe;  but  I  don't  want  to  have  any  bad  dreams. 
It's  bad  enough  when  I  doze  off.  It's  funny  I  can't  re 
member  anything  about  killing  my  wife  when  I'm  awake. 
I  was  too  drunk  at  the  time.  But  hundreds  of  times  I've 
done  it  over  again  in  my  sleep,  in  different  ways. 

"Well,  if  there  wasn't  any  drink  in  the  world  there 
wouldn't  be  much  use  for  prisons." 

THE  NEXT  MORNING,  at  ten  o'clock,  they  were  ready. 
The  condemned  man  was  dressed  in  black,  with  a  white 
shirt,  but  without  either  necktie  or  collar.  On  his  small 
feet  were  black  socks  and  black  felt  slippers.  His  fresh- 
shaven  face  made  him  look  like  a  boy.  As  he  stood  in  the 
center  of  the  cell  he  smiled  at  the  people  around  him,  the 
Warden,  the  two  surpliced  priests,  a  tall  young  man  in 
stripes,  and  the  guard. 

While  the  young  man  in  stripes  was  pinioning  the  arms 
the  guard  looked  on,  the  furrows  cutting  deeply  into  his 
full  cheeks  and  lines  of  pain  crossing  his  forehead  under 
his  thick  white  hair.  "Sure  you  won't  have  any  whisky?" 
he  asked. 

"Thanks.    I  guess  not.    You  take  it." 

"If  you  can  get  along  without  it  I  ought  to." 

The  Warden  was  looking  sympathetically  at  the  black 
figure.  His  eyes  rested  on  the  face,  yellow  as  wax.  "How 
are  you  feeling?" 

"All  right,  Warden." 

"It's  time,"  said  the  Warden,  and  he  bent  forward  to 
step  out  of  the  cell  door. 

The  guard  touched  one  of  the  pinioned  arms.  The  two 
men  walked  along  the  corridor  side  by  side,  with  the  two 
priests  behind  them,  reciting  prayers,  and  the  figure  in 
stripes. 

150 


A    DILEMMA 

THE  PROCESSION  PASSED  through  a  narrow  door  and 
entered  a  room  crowded  with  men.  In  the  center  stood  a 
slim  green  scaffold.  The  Warden  ascended  the  steps  and 
stood  at  one  side.  The  black  figure  stood  over  the  trap 
with  the  guard  at  his  right  hand.  The  two  priests  stood 
at  the  left,  continuing  their  prayers.  The  striped  figure 
stood  at  the  edge  of  the  crowd. 

Quickly  the  guard  drew  a  narrow  black  belt  across  the 
calves  of  the  condemned  man's  legs.  Around  the  neck 
he  adjusted  the  noose.  Over  the  yellow  face  he  pressed  a 
black  hood. 

The  Warden  nodded,  almost  imperceptibly. 

There  was  a  silence. 

The  men  in  the  crowd  stood  motionless. 

The  silence  continued. 

The  Warden's  face  grew  paler.    "Go  on." 

The  guard  did  not  move. 

The  Warden  spoke  sharply:    "Why  don't  you  go  on?" 

The  guard  stood  motionless. 

"Spring  the  trap." 

"I  can't,  Warden." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"I  don't  know.     I  can't  do  it." 

From  under  the  cap  came  a  hoarse  appeal:  "For  God's 
sake,  go  ahead." 

Again  came  the  Warden's  command:  "Spring  the  trap. 
Put  him  out  of  torture." 

The  guard  walked  unsteadily  toward  the  Warden.  He 
seemed  broken.  "You'll  have  to  do  it  yourself,  Warden," 
he  whispered. 

In  the  Warden's  face  there  was  a  flush  of  anger.  "Why 
should  I  do  it?  It's  not  my  business." 

THE  WARDEN  LOOKED  DOWN  on  the  young  man  in  stripes 
at  the  edge  of  the  crowd.  He  called  out:  "You  come  up 
here  and  spring  the  trap." 


}  A    DILEMMA 

The  young  man  did  not  stir. 

"Do  you  hear  what  I  say?" 

"I  can't  do  it,  Warden." 

"You  must  do  it." 

"I  can't  help  it,  Warden.  But  I  can't  kill  a  man  in 
cold  blood." 

The  black  figure  was  trembling. 

The  Warden  caught  sight  of  another  striped  figure 
standing  in  a  corner,  a  hale  old  man,  more  than  six  feet 
tall,  with  broad  shoulders.  "O,  Finnerty!" 

The  old  man  walked  forward.  "Here,"  said  the  War 
den  in  a  tone  of  confidence,  "you've  been  at  all  these  things 
for  the  past  thirty  years.  You  come  up  and  finish  this 
job." 

The  old  man's  blue  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  Warden. 

"Do  you  hear  what  I  say?" 

"I  hear,  Warden,  and  I'd  like  to  oblige  you.  But  it's 
too  much  for  me.  I  killed  a  man  once  when  I  was  drunk. 
But  I  can't  kill  a  man  that  ain't  done  nothin'  to  me." 

The  Warden  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  scaffold.  "Is 
the  sheriff  that  arrested  this  man  here?"  he  asked. 

A  stout,  red-faced  man,  raised  his  arm. 

"Say,  I  want  you  to  come  up  and  spring  the  trap." 

"That's  not  my  business,  Warden.  I  done  my  duty 
and  you  can't  expect  me  to  do  any  more."  The  sheriff 
glanced  furtively  at  the  smooth-faced  youth  of  about 
twenty-one  at  his  side.  "Here's  the  brother  of  the  woman 
that  was  killed.  P'raps  he'll  do  it." 

Then  reply  came  quickly:   "No,  no.    I  couldn't  do  it." 

THE  MAN  ON  THE  TRAP  looked  as  if  he  might  drop  on 
the  floor  of  the  scaffold.  The  guard  walked  forward  and 
put  one  arm  around  the  black  figure. 

From  out  of  the  crowd  stepped  a  well-dressed  man  of 
middle  age.  "I'll  do  it,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  address 
ing  the  Warden. 

152 


A    DILEMMA 

The  Warden  frowned.     "Who  are  you?" 

"I'm  a  citizen  of  this  State.  I'm  in  favor  of  capital 
punishment.  I  can't  see  there  is  any  difference  between 
hanging  a  man  by  a  law  that  I  support  and  hanging  a 
man  myself." 

The  Warden  studied  the  man  closely.  Then  he  said: 
"Well,  as  there  is  no  one  else  to  do  the  job  you  might  as 
well  do  it." 

The  man  walked  up  the  steps.  He  had  a  whispered 
talk  with  the  Warden. 

In  a  low  voice  the  guard  said  to  the  black  figure: 
"Brace  up,"  and  stepped  off  the  trap. 

The  figure  stood  rigid.  Suddenly  it  dropped  and  fran 
tically  dangled  at  the  end  of  the  rope. 

The  guard  seized  the  rope.  The  figure  hung  still,  the 
slippered  feet  in  the  air. 

The  stranger  made  his  way  down  the  steps.  At  his 
approach  the  crowd  parted.  They  looked  at  him  with 
curiosity  and  wonder  in  their  eyes,  as  if  he  were  in  some 
way  different  from  themselves. 


153 


THE  COMMUNITY 

A  COMMUNITY  stood  on  the  slope  of  a  mountain, 
over-looking  the  sea.  There,  for  generations,  men 
and  women  and  children  dwelt  in  harmony,  cherish 
ing  the  mesasge  of  the  Master,  who  had  come  to  teach 
them  how  to  live,  loving  his  memory,  revering  the  tradi 
tions  of  his  life  on  earth.  There  was  no  inequality.  The 
strong  helped  the  weak.  The  welfare  of  each  contributed 
to  the  happiness  of  all.  Out  of  the  abundant  earth  came 
everything  necessary  for  sustenance.  By  co-operating,  the 
people  found  their  work  easy.  It  left  them  plenty  of 
leisure.  Each  day  from  among  them  rose  thanks  to  God 
in  thought  and  word  and  deed.  And  each  day  they  would 
gaze  at  the  great  arch  they  had  built,  heralding  the 
Master's  words,  "Love  one  another." 

AFTER  A  LONG  TIME  new  ideas  spread  through  the  com 
munity.  The  people  grew  restless.  Some  of  them  con 
sidered  themselves  more  important  than  the  others  and 
entitled  to  greater  rewards,  including  special  consideration. 
It  was  whispered  that  the  message  of  the  Master  ought 
not  to  be  accepted  too  literally.  Times  were  changing. 
The  community  was  ready  for  a  new  message.  It  soon 
came  in  the  preaching  of  a  man  that  called  himself  a 
prophet. 

After  a  few  years,  the  community  was  divided. 

Those  who  had  once  regarded  themselves  as  brothers 
were  members  of  hostile  camps. 

Meanwhile,  the  prosperity  went  on.  From  the  two 
camps  rose  thanks  to  God,  with  requests  for  more,  each 
camp  praying  for  itself  alone.  Instead  of  one  arch,  there 
were  two  arches,  proclaiming,  "Love  one  another." 

As  NEW  GENERATIONS  DEVELOPED  other  prophets  came. 
The  community  was  like  a  battlefield,  broken  into  many 

154 


THE  COMMUNITY 

camps.  Each  called  itself  the  defender  and  the  representa 
tive  of  the  only  true  God.  Instead  of  one  God,  the  com 
munity  worshipped  many  Gods.  The  members  of  one 
camp  would  express  suspicion  and  scorn  and  hatred  for 
the  members  of  the  other  camps.  But  in  each  camp  there 
stood  the  great  arch,  bearing  these  words  of  the  Master: 
"Love  one  another." 

There  were  so  many  arches  now  that  wherever  one 
turned  the  wonder  met  the  eye. 

Now  AND  THEN  someone  would  marvel  that  in  a  com 
munity  where  there  was  so  wide  a  display  of  that  motto 
there  should  be  so  much  enmity.  But  the  leaders  in  each 
camp  had  an  explanation  ready.  Each  explanation  was 
different  from  the  others.  They  all  agreed,  however,  that 
the  message  of  the  Master  should  not  be  taken  too  liter 
ally.  When  it  was  given  the  community  was  a  very  dif 
ferent  place. 

THE  PROSPERITY  WENT  ON.  And  from  each  camp  con 
tinued  the  requests  for  more. 

By  this  time,  however,  prosperity  had  become  so  un 
equally  distributed  that,  for  the  most  part,  it  went  to  a 
small  minority.  The  great  majority,  doing  the  hardest 
work,  received  barely  enough  to  live  on.  And,  among 
them,  many  perished,  from  insufficient  nourishment  and 
from  the  ills  due  to  over-crowding,  and  from  the  sins  and 
the  disasters  resulting  from  the  lack  of  opportunity  and 
incentive. 

There  were  those  who,  fearing  to  bring  children  into 
such  a  community,  slew  the  babes  in  the  womb.  There 
were  even  teachers  who  went  about  explaining  that  the 
practice  was  good  and  giving  instruction. 

AT  LAST,  from  the  community,  voices  rose  in  denuncia 
tion  and  warning.  But  in  the  hum  of  industry  and  of 

155 


THE  COMMUNITY 

competition,  they  were  scarcely  heard.  It  was  said  that 
they  had  been  inspired  by  discontent  and  jealousy.  -At  the 
same  time,  from  a  multitude  of  camps  worshipping  a 
multitude  of  Gods,  flamed  the  words,  "Love  one  another." 
As  soon  as  a  new  camp  would  come  into  being,  up  those 
words  would  go,  "Love  one  another." 

No  one  laughed.    No  one  paid  attention.    The  words 
had  ceased  to  have  a  meaning. 

UNEXPECTEDLY,  one  came,  a  stranger,  humble  of  mien 
and  of  dress.  He  pointed  to  the  mottoes,  "Love  one 
another."  He  asked  the  people  to  stop  and  to  look  up 
and  to  reflect.  They  were  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  notice. 
From  camp  to  camp  the  stranger  passed,  repeating  his 
words.  From  each  camp  he  was  angrily  ejected.  Not 
only  was  his  interference  considered  an  impertinence;  but 
his  appearance  made  him  offensive  and  dangerous.  In 
the  more  fashionable  camps  where  those  assembled  who 
wore  costly  clothes,  at  his  approach,  people  drew  away  as 
if  his  presence  might  be  contaminating.  When  he  found 
that  none  of  the  camps  would  receive  him  he  stood  in  the 
market  place  and,  in  a  loud  voice,  he  proclaimed  the  mes 
sage  of  the  Master,  calling  on  all  men  to  follow  him  in  the 
way  of  truth. 

Representatives  of  the  law  came  and  arrested  him  as  a 
madman. 


THE  VIRTUES 

IN  an  obscure  corner  the  Virtues  gathered.  They  were 
humbly  dressed.  They  moved  in  silence,  as  if  afraid 
of  disturbing  the  world.  The  light  that  streamed 
from  their  faces  showed  that  they  were  beautiful;  but  as 
the  people  hurried  by  in  the  streets  no  one  seemed  to  notice. 

"It  is  Saturday  night,"  whispered  Patience.  "Soon  the 
workers  will  have  rest.  For  a  day  they  will  be  free.  Then 
their  toil  will  begin  again."  She  sighed.  "How  good  they 
are.  I  sometimes  wonder  if  I  haven't  done  them  a  great 
wrong." 

"Why,  sister?"  asked  Humility.  "If  you  did  not  in 
spire  them  they  would  suffer  all  the  more  and  their  bur 
dens  would  be  harder  to  bear." 

Patience  shook  her  head.  "I  sometimes  think  that,  but 
for  me,  they  might  throw  off  their  yoke.  They  might 
possess  themselves  of  their  inheritance." 

FAITH,  NOBLE  or  BEARING,  her  eyes  like  flame,  spoke  up. 
"You  must  not  lose  heart,"  she  said.  "Can  you  not  see 
that  they  are  all  learning?  Each  day  carries  them  nearer 
the  goal.  Before  they  enter  into  their  inheritance  they 
must  be  ready.  Otherwise,  they  would  be  like  the  de- 
spoilers.  What  a  calamity  if  they  were  to  pay  for  victory 
at  the  cost  of  all  they  had  learned  through  their  suffering." 

Sincerity,  her  calm  features  showing  perfect  self-control, 
quietly  interposed,  "If  we  could  only  protect  them  from  the 
false  leaders  that  try  to  make  them  believe  they  can  be 
helped  by  the  evil  passions.  As  if  evil  could  ever  lead  to 
good." 

"Yes,  they  have  been  betrayed  so  often,"  said  Patience. 
"No  wonder  they  turn  away  from  us  at  times.  When 
they  are  in  pain,  we  seem  to  have  so  little  to  offer  them. 
And  yet  it  is  then  they  are  most  in  need  of  our  help.  There 

157 


THE  VIRTUES 

is  a  mother  in  the  street  below  that  I  have  been  triyng  to 
speak  to  all  day  long.  She  will  not  listen.  Last  week 
her  husband  was  killed  at  his  work.  When  they  took  him 
home  to  her  she  did  not  seem  to  understand.  She  gathered 
her  children  about  her  and  she  looked  on  while  the  neigh 
bors  placed  the  body  on  the  bed.  For  a  long  time  she  did 
not  speak  a  word.  Then  she  pointed  to  the  children  and 
said,  'What  is  to  become  of  them?'  They  told  her  to  be 
patient  and  she  cried  out  and  said  dreadful  words.  Since 
the  funeral  she  has  been  like  one  distracted.  If  I  only 
knew  her,  to  give  her  comfort." 

COURAGE,  towering  above  them  in  his  might,  said  in  a 
low  voice,  "She  is  growing  quiet.  They  always  do  after 
the  first  few  days.  They  wear  themselves  out.  She  is 
thinking  of  what  she  must  do  for  her  children.  The  com 
pany  her  husband  worked  for  since  he  was  a  child  will  do 
nothing.  So  she  must  go  out  to  work  now." 

"I  have  been  whispering  to  her,"  said  Thrift.  "I  have 
told  her  what  she  must  do.  Before  her  marriage  she  was  a 
factory  hand.  She  was  stronger  then.  Child-bearing 
and  privation  have  weakened  her.  But  the  world  she  has 
given  four  children  to  has  nothing  to  offer  her  in  return 
except  the  chance  to  earn  barely  enough  to  keep  the  chil 
dren  from  starving.  However,  I  will  help  her.  I  know 
the  man  who  used  to  be  her  foreman.  He  is  one  of  the 
owners  now.  I  will  remind  him  that  she  was  one  of  his 
most  faithful  workers.  I  will  make  him  see  that  it  will 
pay  him  to  take  her  back."  Thrift  turned  to  the  shrinking 
figure  at  her  side.  "I  have  learned  so  much  from  you, 
Humility.  But  for  your  help  I  should  be  cast  down  with 
shame." 

"What  have  you  to  be  ashamed  of?"  Humility  asked, 
standing  beside  Chastity  and  Modesty. 

"I  am  ashamed  of  what  has  been  done  to  me  in  the 
world.  So  often  I  have  been  changed  into  a  vice.  Once 


THE  VIRTUES 

that  factory-owner  was  my  friend  and  disciple.  I  led  him 
into  the  ways  that  made  him  grind  the  poor  for  his  own 
advantage.  That  is  only  one  of  many  sorrows  I  have 
had  where  the  children  of  men  have  turned  my  lessons 
into  lessons  of  greed.  They  have  drawn  me  closer  to  you, 
Humility.  Perhaps  they  have  kept  me  from  the  sin  of 
pride." 

COURAGE  burst  out  laughing.  "Hold  up  your  head, 
Thrift,"  he  exclaimed.  "Have  confidence.  You  don't 
happen  to  be  in  favor  just  now  in  the  world  of  men;  but 
you  have  your  place  just  the  same.  You  make  people  think 
about  the  future,  not  merely  their  own  future,  but  their 
children's.  You  inspire  their  energy.  You  sharpen  their 
wits.  It  is  not  your  fault  if  they  turn  your  counsel  into  evil. 
Haven't  you  learned  that  evil  and  good  live  together  in  the 
human  heart  ?  Don't  you  find  evil  wherever  you  go  ?  And 
don't  you  know  it's  the  greatest  coward  in  the  world? 
Look  it  straight  in  the  face,  and  it  will  slink  into  a  corner  or 
fly  away." 

For  a  moment  Humility  lifted  her  head  and  ventured 
to  look  into  the  face  of  Courage.  "How  wonderful  you 
are!"  she  said. 

"I  am  not  nearly  so  wonderful  as  you  are,  Humility," 
cried  Courage,  with  his  great  laugh.  "I  am  always  getting 
people  into  trouble.  I  sometimes  think  that  if  I  would 
only  let  people  alone  they  would  be  better  off  without  me." 

The  remark  made  the  lovely  face  of  Modesty,  standing 
apart  from  the  others,  shine  all  the  more  brightly. 

Courage  glanced  from  Modesty  to  Humility  and 
Chastity.  "I  have  learned  a  lot  from  you  three.  You  can 
all  do  wonders  that  are  beyond  me.  You  have  come  to  my 
rescue  on  many  an  occasion,  Modesty,  and  you  have  never 
looked  for  any  credit.  And  as  for  you,  Humility,  you  often 
make  me  feel  like  a  bungler.  In  your  gentle  way  you  open 
the  door  to  the  greatest  of  all  treasures.  And,  Chastity, 

159 


THE  VIRTUES 

it  is  marvelous  how  you  have  kept  your  place  in  the  world, 
in  spite  of  the  efforts  to  drive  you  out." 

"It  is  because  women  are  the  defenders  of  the  race/' 
Chastity  replied,  "because  they  know  it  is  their  sacred 
function  to  protect  and  safeguard  the  coming  generations. 
They  have  been  made  to  suffer  for  their  devotion.  But  a 
better  day  is  coming  when  their  service  will  be  understood 
and  rewarded." 

HUMILITY  was  shaking  her  head.  "No  one  cares  for  me 
nowadays.  I  am  often  very  lonely.  Even  the  poor  are 
casting  me  out." 

"You  must  wait,"  said  Patience.  "The  time  is  coming 
when  they  will  appreciate  you  again  and  love  you."  And 
Courage  added,  "Remember,  the  others  need  you  just  as 
much,  perhaps  more,  than  those  who  have  lost  the  meaning 
of  life  in  their  devotion  to  material  things." 

"It  is  inequality  that  is  driving  us  out  of  the  world," 
whispered  Modesty.  "It  degrades  those  who  have  too 
much  and  those  who  have  too  little.  Even  the  women  are 
denying  me  now.  When  the  fashion  changes  to  immodesty 
they  follow  like  slaves.  They  make  me  feel  as  if  I  were  a 


mere  convention." 


"The  reason  is  that  they  are  blind,"  Patience  explained. 
"They  cannot  see  that  immodesty  changes  their  charm 
into  ugliness." 

"Yes,"  Courage  remarked,  "all  the  children  of  men  are 
living  in  an  imaginary  world,  not  nearly  so  glorious  as 
reality.  They  are  stumbling  and  blundering  and  tearing 
at  one  another.  Let  us  go  back  to  our  task.  Let  us  van 
quish  the  forces  of  evil." 

"Softly!"  said  Patience.  "Already  we  have  done  great 
harm  by  being  too  zealous.  Let  us  remember  that  the 
world  was  not  made  in  a  day.  Our  task  is  long." 

"We  must  trust  in  the  greatest  of  all  powers,"  said 
Faith. 

1 60 


THE  VIRTUES 

Charity,  loveliest  of  all  the  figures,  spoke  for  the  first 
time.  "And  let  us  try  never  to  forget,"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
almost  inaudible  and  yet  carrying  its  message  unmistakably, 
"that  those  who  are  doing  so  much  harm  believe  that  they 
are  doing  right." 

"And  let  us  not  be  too  sure  that  we  are  right  ourselves," 
warned  Humility. 

They  all  rose  together,  their  tattered  garments  trailing 
behind  them  and  taking  on  a  strange  beauty  in  the  light  of 
the  stars. 


161 


A  MARRIAGE 

A  MAN  and  a  woman  desperately  strove  against  ob 
stacles  to  unite  their  lives.  When  they  succeeded 
they  were  full  of  gratitude  and  joy.  Together  they 
were  to  bear  the  chances  of  life,  striving  hand  in  hand, 
each  thinking,  never  of  self,  but  of  the  other,  the  perfect 
one. 

Sometimes  they  forgot  the  world  outside.  They  had 
their  own  world. 

Sometimes  they  were  afraid  of  the  world  outside  lest  it 
intrude  on  them  and  destroy  their  harmony. 

Sometimes  they  would  think  of  the  world  outside  with 
pity.  So  many  were  there  that  did  not  love  as  they  did, 
that  did  not  reach  the  fulfillment  of  life. 

And  the  world  outside,  knowing  the  obstacles  the  two 
had  overcome,  looked  on  with  wonder,  not  wholly  free 
from  envy. 

EACH  DAY  the  two  were  surprised  by  their  happiness,  as  it 
revealed  itself  to  them  anew.  In  each  other  they  were 
constantly  making  discoveries,  reaching  greater  depths  of 
understanding  and  of  sympathy.  She  had  only  to  whisper 
a  thought  to  find  it  appreciated.  At  a  glance  from  him 
she  would  know  what  he  was  thinking  of  and  she  would 
approve. 

In  everything  they  gave  way  to  each  other.  They 
would  vie  with  each  other  in  giving  way. 

Silently  each  resolved  to  cherish  this  love.  So  long  as 
it  endured,  whatever  ill  might  come  would  be  as  if  it  were 
not.  For  its  sake  they  would  make  any  sacrifice;  they 
would  undergo  any  trial. 

AFTER  THE  FIRST  YEAR  the  man  began  to  be  used  to  his 
happiness.  It  ceased  to  cause  him  surprise.  He  felt  so 

162 


A   MARRIAGE 

sure  of  it  that  he  gradually  formed  the  habit  of  letting  it 
fade  out  of  his  thoughts.  He  had  so  many  other  things  to 
think  of,  interesting  and  important.  Occasionally,  how 
ever,  he  would  look  over  his  shoulder  to  make  sure  that 
his  happiness  was  still  there.  He  would  find  it  smiling, 
eager  for  a  word  or  a  glance. 

He  was  pleased  to  see  that  it  could  wait.  With  a  tran 
quil  mind  he  attended  to  those  important  and  interesting 
things.  In  them  he  became  more  and  more  absorbed. 

MEANWHILE,  the  wife  began  to  be  troubled.  Instead  of 
thinking  less  about  her  happiness  she  thought  more.  She 
knew  it  needed  more  thought  because  of  her  husband's 
neglect. 

Slowly  it  dawned  upon  her  that  her  thinking  was  not 
enough.  She  felt  herself  in  the  presence  of  danger.  She 
did  not  know  what  to  do.  Her  disquietude  was  so  vague, 
so  elusive,  she  could  not  put  it  into  words.  Besides,  words 
would  give  it  a  more  definite  reality.  She  tried  to  assure 
herself  that  it  had  no  real  cause.  Though  she  resolved  to 
resist  those  thoughts,  they  came  back  again  and  again, 
and  grew  more  persistent. 

AFTER  THE  SECOND  YEAR  the  man  felt  as  if  he  had  come 
out  of  a  strange  dream.  He  was  free  again,  independent. 
He  was  himself.  He  sighed,  and  he  looked  about,  and  he 
realized  that  he  had  a  wife,  a  big  responsibility,  some 
one  to  be  cared  for,  giving  dignity  to  his  days,  helping  him 
to  maintain  a  home  and  a  position  in  the  world.  He  must 
place  her  where  she  belonged.  Life  was  serious  now. 
Youth,  with  its  folly,  was  over.  So  he  proceeded  to  assert 
himself.  He  told  his  wife  what  she  ought  to  believe  and 
what  she  ought  to  do.  He  was  surprised  to  find  that  she 
did  not  agree. 

THEN  THE  MAN  began  to  reflect.  He  said  to  himself  that 
till  now  his  wife  had  always  believed  as  he  believed.  He 

163 


A  MARRIAGE 

forgot  that  till  now  he  had  always  believed  as  she  be 
lieved.  He  must  make  her  see  the  truth.  He  grew  more 
explicit  and  firm  in  the  expression  of  his  ideas.  She  grew 
more  firm  in  resisting  and  in  presenting  ideas  of  her  own. 

Soon,  greatly  to  his  amazement,  the  man  found  that  his 
wife  took  pleasure  in  disagreeing  with  him  in  showing 
opposition.  Once  when  he  expressed  an  opinion  that  he 
strongly  believed  to  be  right  and  she  took  the  opposite 
view,  he  laughed  out  loud.  In  her  face  he  noticed  an 
expression  that  he  had  never  seen  there  before.  It  re 
minded  him  of  an  infuriated  animal. 

He  began  to  think  that  she  was  not  the  woman  he 
thought  he  had  married. 

At  the  same  moment  she  felt  that  he  was  not  the  man 
she  thought  she  had  married. 

PRESENTLY  THE  WIFE  began  to  express  opinions  that  her 
husband  considered  absurd.  Often  he  would  laugh  and 
he  would  see  that  angry  look  in  her  face.  To  avoid  the 
annoyance  of  seeing  the  look  he  stopped  laughing.  In 
stead  he  would  either  make  a  little  sound  of  contempt  or 
he  would  be  silent  or  he  would  say:  "You  don't  know 
what  you  are  talking  about." 

Sometimes  she  would  say:  "You  think  you  know  every 
thing,  don't  you?" 

The  question  would  cause  him  such  irritation  that,  for 
a  long  time,  he  would  not  speak.  Occasionally  he  would 
go  out,  leaving  her  alone. 

THERE  WERE  TIMES,  however,  when  something  like  the 
old  love  would  come  back.  Then  she  would  tell  him  that 
he  had  changed.  He  would  say  that  he  had  not  changed. 
The  talk  was  likely  to  develop  into  an  argument.  Once 
he  said:  "I'm  getting  tired  of  this." 

So  the  expressions  of  their  love  kept  causing  more  quar 
rels.  They  would  be  two  again,  each  trying  to  convict  the 
other  of  wrong,  each  feeling  injured  and  resentful. 

164 


A  MARRIAGE 

THE  DAY  CAME  when  their  love  grew  discouraged.  It 
never  came  back.  In  their  minds  it  had  no  reality  now. 
It  seemed  to  vanish  even  from  memory.  Any  chance  re 
minder  of  it  would  give  them,  not  pleasure,  but  pain. 

And  yet  they  went  on  living  together.  In  the  con 
ditions  of  their  lives  there  was  no  apparent  change.  The 
world  outside  still  looked  on  with  wonder,  not  wholly  free 
from  envy. 


THE  LOSS 

A  MAN  stood  in  the  highway  of  life  and  looked 
ahead.  He  knew  that  he  had  been  richly  endowed 
by  nature,  with  physical  strength,  with  personal 
charm,  with  intellectual  power  and  with  talent.  The  great 
prizes  of  life  were  within  his  reach.  All  he  had  to  do  was 
to  keep  going  forward,  steadily,  persistently.  But  along 
the  way  there  were  diversions,  the  more  tempting  because 
they  carried  the  threat  of  danger. 

"See  the  man  you  can  be,"  said  a  voice,  quiet  and  clear, 
and  the  man  looked  through  the  years  and  saw  himself 
with  the  prizes  of  life  in  his  grasp,  a  force  for  good  in  the 
community,  with  stimulating  responsibilities,  honored  and 
happy. 

Another  voice  spoke,  more  subtle  and  alluring:  uYou 
can  have  all  those  prizes  and  you  can  have  the  diversions, 
too." 

The  man  smiled.  A  knowing  look  appeared  in  his  face. 
Life  was  going  to  be  interesting. 

A  DOZEN  YEARS  LATER  the  man  stood  in  the  highway  of 
life.  He  looked  ahead.  Those  prizes  were  still  in  sight; 
but  they  seemed  to  be  as  far  away  as  they  had  been  before. 

That  voice  spoke,  quiet  and  clear:  "See  the  man  you 
still  can  be." 

The  man  shivered.    He  did  not  dare  look. 

"It  is  not  too  late." 

The  other  voice  spoke,  even  more  subtle  and  alluring 
than  it  had  been  before:  "Think  of  the  joys  that  have 
been  yours.  Would  you  give  them  up?  There  are  other 
joys  waiting  for  you,  just  as  great.  And  the  prizes  are 
still  there.  Already  you  have  had  a  large  share  of  success 
among  men." 

The  man  looked  away  and  laughed.     Life  was  good. 

166 


THE  LOSS 

He  would  go  on  as  he  had  been  doing.  Why  should  he  not 
take  pleasure  as  it  came? 

AGAIN  THE  MAN  stood  in  the  highway  of  life.  His  youth 
was  gone  now.  He  was  in  middle  age.  On  his  face  and 
figure  he  had  left  the  marks  of  what  he  had  done  and 
what  he  had  felt  and  what  he  had  thought.  It  was  as  if 
he  had  written  to  the  world  a  message  of  what  he  had 
become.  His  figure  was  heavy.  His  face  sagged.  There 
was  dullness  in  his  eyes. 

Quiet  and  clear  came  the  voice:  "See  the  man  you 
might  have  been." 

He  tried  to  look  away.  But,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  saw 
a  man  of  his  own  height  and  of  his  own  years,  with  health 
in  his  cheeks  and  brightness  in  his  eyes  and  manhood  in 
his  bearing,  expressing  a  wholesome  and  happy  maturity. 

"Do  you  see  the  man  you  might  have  been?" 

"Yes,  I  see,"  the  man  replied  in  a  low  voice.  He  looked 
for  the  prizes.  They  were  no  longer  in  sight. 

"Never  mind,"  said  that  other  voice,  wonderfully  subtle 
and  alluring.  "I  have  compensations.  You  and  I  belong 
to  each  other.  Come  and  I  will  make  you  happy." 

The  man  resisted.  "You  have  destroyed  me,"  he  cried. 
"You  made  me  sell  myself  to  you.  Where  are  those  prizes 
you  promised  me?" 

The  voice  broke  into  a  mocking  laugh.  "Some  one  else 
must  have  captured  them  while  you  were  carousing." 

The  man  became  reproachful.  But  the  more  violently 
he  talked,  the  more  that  voice  mocked.  "You  can't 
frighten  me,  my  friend.  Why,  I  taught  you  to  speak  in 
that  way  myself.  Why  make  yourself  miserable  when 
you  can  forget  all  about  this  little  disappointment?" 

AT  THE  END  OF  LIFE,  as  the  man  lay,  besotted,  he  heard 
that  quiet  voice.     "See  the  man  you  might  have  been." 
Distinctly  he  saw  himself,  old  now,  with  gray  hair  and 

167 


THE  LOSS 

with  a  smooth  brow  and  with  a  face  serene  after  the 
storms  of  years,  surrounded  with  his  wife,  old  like  him 
self,  and  his  children  and  his  children's  children,  honored, 
beloved,  happy. 

"Why  didn't  I  listen  to  you?"  he  whispered. 

That  other  voice  broke  in,  laughing  and  mocking.  "See 
what  you've  come  to." 

"It  isn't  what  I  am  that  is  my  greatest  torment,"  the 
man  cried  out.  "It's  what  I've  missed.  It's  what  I  might 
have  been." 


168 


ON  SHIPBOARD 

A  SHIP  sailed  out  from  a  great  port  across  the  ocean 
to  another  great  port,  with  thousands  of  people  on 
board,  children,  women  and  men.     In  a  few  hours 
it  was  surrounded  by  the  unbroken  horizon,  a  world  in 
itself,  swiftly  moving  through  the  water,  a  triumph  of 
man's  ingenuity. 

IN  THE  CABIN  were  the  specially  favored,  the  few.  They 
had  their  part  of  the  ship,  the  most  attractive  part  and 
the  most  finely  equipped,  where  the  other  passengers 
were  not  permitted  to  enter.  A  far  larger  number  occu 
pied  the  second  cabin,  comfortable  but  not  nearly  so  luxu 
rious,  with  a  dining-room  less  handsomely  appointed  and 
with  food  less  varied  and  less  rich.  Below,  in  the  steerage, 
were  quartered  the  multitude,  in  small,  ill-smelling,  over 
crowded  rooms,  under  the  water  line,  supplied  with  coarse 
food. 

THE  PEOPLE  in  the  steerage  were  not  allowed  to  go  into 
the  second  or  first  cabin.  The  people  in  the  second  cabin 
could  go  into  the  steerage,  but  not  into  the  first  cabin. 
The  first-cabin  passengers  could  roam  where  they  pleased. 

For  the  most  part,  however,  the  first-cabin  passengers 
did  not  leave  their  own  part  of  the  ship.  It  was  only  an 
adventurous  spirit  that  would  explore.  He  would  come 
back  with  strange  tales,  as  of  people  belonging  to  an  alien 
race.  His  description  of  life  in  the  steerage  would  be 
listened  to  with  both  amusement  and  pity.  Sometimes  a 
woman,  as  she  lay  bundled  in  her  steamer  chair,  would 
murmur:  "Poor  creatures,  I  wonder  how  they  live." 

There  was  a  point  in  the  first-class  cabin  where  passen 
gers  could  stand  and  look  down  into  the  steerage.  Occa 
sionally  a  small  group  would  stop  there  and  watch  the 

169 


ON    SHIPBOARD 

people  dancing  to  the  music  of  a  concertina.  Now  and 
then  one  would  throw  coins  which  would  be  scrambled  for. 

THERE  WAS  a  marked  difference  between  the  people  of 
the  first  cabin  and  those  of  the  second  cabin  and  in  the 
steerage.  For  the  first  few  days  first-cabin  passengers 
acted  as  if  they  were  afraid  of  one  another.  Many  held 
themselves  aloof.  Up  and  down  the  deck  they  would  walk, 
alone  or  in  pairs,  expensively  dressed,  authoritative,  their 
faces  set,  their  eyes  looking  straight  ahead.  As  the  days 
went  on,  however,  the  others  seemed  to  grow  less  suspicious 
and  more  friendly. 

IN  THE  SECOND  CABIN  there  was  a  marked  absence  of 
suspicion.  The  passengers  quickly  made  acquaintances. 
They  broke  into  many  groups,  talking  with  animation. 
And  as  for  the  steerage,  by  the  time  the  ship  had  been  out 
for  a  day,  it  seemed  as  if  the  people  belonged  to  one  great 
family.  They  were  always  doing  things  for  one  another 
and  sharing.  Occasionally  there  would  be  a  quarrel,  but 
it  would  soon  be  forgotten  in  the  general  good  cheer. 

BESIDE  THE  PASSENGERS  there  were  a  multitude  of  work 
ers,  the  officers,  the  crew  and  strange  unsightly  creatures 
that  seldom  were  seen,  black  with  grime,  moistened  with 
sweat,  the  stokers  that  fed  the  vitality  of  this  monster 
ship.  For  the  most  part  the  officers  spoke  only  to  the 
people  in  the  first  cabin.  The  crew  spoke  only  to  the 
people  in  the  second  cabin  and  in  the  steerage.  The  stokers 
remained  apart. 

IT  SELDOM  OCCURRED  to  anyone  that  the  people  of  this 
world  were  all  related.  Indeed,  most  of  the  first-cabin 
passengers  were  scarcely  conscious  of  the  existence  of  the 
teeming  humanity  so  close  to  them  and  yet  so  far  away. 
Once,  however,  as  a  woman  was  looking  out  on  the  gently 

170 


ON   SHIPBOARD 

swelling  ocean,  she  remarked:  "What  a  dreadful  thing 
it  would  be  if  anything  were  to  happen  to  the  ship.  There's 
no  knowing  how  those  foreigners  in  the  steerage  would 
behave  themselves.  There  might  be  a  panic.  What  a  pity 
it  is  we  can't  have  ships  without  any  steerage.  Perhaps 
they  will  come  in  time." 

ONE  DAY  a  church  dignitary,  from  a  great  city,  decided  to 
make  a  visit  to  the  steerage.  He  asked  another  passenger 
to  go  with  him,  the  president  of  a  college.  They  walked 
among  the  crowds  massed  on  the  lower  deck,  smiling  in  the 
way  of  kindly  superiority.  The  steerage  passengers  looked 
on  with  mild  interest,  wondering  who  those  prosperous 
looking  visitors  could  be. 

"It's  curious,  isn't  it,"  said  the  clergyman  to  the  presi 
dent,  "how  much  happier  their  faces  are  than  the  faces  in 
the  first  cabin?" 

"They  don't  think,"  said  the  president. 

"Ah."  The  clergyman  looked  troubled.  "I'm  afraid 
we  shall  have  a  hard  time  assimilating  them." 

"Oh,  no."  The  president  shook  his  head.  "It's  won 
derful  how  quickly  they  adapt  themselves  to  American 
ways." 

"The  church  finds  it  harder  and  harder  to  reach  them," 
the  clergyman  went  on.  "In  fact,  the  poor  of  our  cities 
are  becoming  an  increasingly  difficult  problem.  They 
seem  to  have  lost  their  respect  for  religion." 

"What  do  you  think  the  reason  can  be?"  the  president 
asked  as  they  started  to  wander  back  where  they  belonged. 
"The  smell  is  very  disagreeable,  isn't  it?"  he  remarked 
parenthetically. 

"Very,"  the  clergyman  replied.  "I  thought  I  should  get 
some  light  on  the  subject  during  my  six  months  in  Europe. 
But  I  found  the  conditions  there  even  worse  than  they  are 
at  home." 

"Don't  you  think  we  are  likely  to  solve  the  problem  by 


ON    SHIPBOARD 

getting  at  the  minds  of  the  people?"  said  the  president. 

uMaybe,  maybe."  The  clergyman  spoke  with  genial 
optimism.  "We  may  be  able  to  train  the  younger  genera 
tions  of  the  people  that  are  pouring  in  here  from  Europe 
to  see  the  absurdity  of  the  revolutionary  ideas  they  bring 
over.  Otherwise  they  will  surely  be  a  menace.  Then  we 
may  be  able  to  reach  them  through  our  religious  or 
ganizations." 

uYes,"  the  president  gravely  remarked.  "I  am  reac 
tionary  enough  to  believe  that  Christianity  and  education 
ought  to  go  hand  in  hand." 


172 


FEAR 

A  WOMAN  found  herself  living  in  a  world  of  fear. 
Wherever  she  turned   she   saw  a  menace.     And 
within  she  felt  a  continual  threat  of  danger.     She 
began  to  think  that  she  was  in  the  grip  of  a  malevolent 
fate.    At  last  the  moment  came  when  she  found  her  tor 
ment  unbearable.     Helplessly  she   considered  what  she 
should  do.    Should  she  yield  to  fate  by  giving  up  her  life? 
Or  should  she  overcome  her  fear? 

THIS  QUESTIONING  filled  her  with  alarm.  One  of  the 
greatest  of  her  fears  was  death.  Equally  great  was  her 
fear  of  life.  Suppose  she  were  to  look  each  fear,  as  it 
presented  itself,  straight  in  the  face. 

At  once  so  many  fears  came,  in  aspect  so  dreadful,  that 
she  shrank  before  them,  cowering  like  an  animal  under 
pursuit. 

THEN  THE  WOMAN  said  to  herself:  "Suppose  all  my  fears 
came  true?  They  could  not  harm  me  more  than  they  are 
doing  now."  Instantly  she  made  a  resolve  to  resign  her 
self  to  the  spirit  of  life.  Whatever  might  come  she  would 
accept  as  part  of  the  universal  plan.  At  that  moment, 
greatly  to  her  surprise,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  received  an 
infusion  of  strength. 

DURING  THE  NEXT  FEW  DAYS  she  was  aware  of  her  fears. 
But  they  were  not  so  close  as  they  had  been  or  so  threat 
ening.  They  also  seemed  different  in  their  attitude  toward 
her,  less  vindictive,  less  concerned  with  singling  her  out 
for  their  prey.  She  had  a  curious  impulse  to  call  to  them 
that  she  was  ready  to  take  whatever  they  kept  in  hiding. 
Meanwhile,  she  went  on  with  her  daily  affairs.  She  no 
ticed  that  she  had  become  more  efficient.  Instead  of  fixing 


FEAR 

part  of  her  mind  on  those  fears,  she  could  concentrate  on 
the  task  in  hand.  As  the  change  continued,  she  often 
caught  herself  smiling.  She  felt  as  if  little  springs  of  hap 
piness  were  bubbling  in  her  mind  and  sending  health 
through  her  whole  being. 

ONE  DAY  the  woman  met  the  greatest  of  those  fears.  It 
stood  in  her  way. 

"Long  ago  I  told  you  that  I  was  coming,"  it  said.  "You 
thought  you  could  keep  me  out,  didn't  you?" 

Steadily  she  looked  at  the  mis-shapen  creature,  hideous 
of  face,  leering.  "If  you  are  real  I  am  not  afraid  of  you. 
There  is  a  power  within  me  that  gives  me  strength  greater 
than  yours.  And  if  you  are  only  a  fear  you  are  nothing." 

Instantly  the  fear  vanished. 

THAT  ENCOUNTER  gave  the  woman  greater  confidence. 
She  felt  as  if  she  had  won  a  triumph  over  herself.  She 
gazed  on  the  world  and  saw  for  the  first  time  how  wonder 
ful  it  was  and  how  beautiful.  It  was  as  if  a  dark  veil  had 
fallen  from  her  eyes.  She  looked  around  and  she  saw  a 
multitude  of  people  going  about  with  the  light  of  the  world 
darkened  by  veils.  She  longed  to  call  to  them  to  take  the 
veils  off  and  to  see.  She  decided  that  the  best  she  could  do 
would  be  to  reflect  the  marvels,  not  in  words,  but  in  her 
response  to  the  joy  of  living. 

ONE  DAY,  when  she  was  feeling  particularly  well,  she  felt 
the  presence  of  something  curious,  like  one  of  those  old 
fears  and  yet  unlike.  It  stood  there,  a  mighty  figure, 
stern  of  face,  but  not  repulsive,  as  the  other  had  been. 
"Are  you  afraid?"  it  said. 

"No,"  she  replied,  and  she  held  out  her  hand. 

They  stood  together,  their  hands  clasped. 

"You  are  a  brave  woman,"  said  the  presence,  with  a 
smile  that  had  a  kind  of  radiance. 


FEAR 


The  woman  shook  her  head.  "Oh,  no.  But  I  am  happy 
in  being  a  part  of  the  universal  plan.  Tell  me  what  I  must 
do.  I  have  received  so  much  I  should  like  to  give  some 
thing  in  return." 

"Those  who  are  without  fear  are  always  giving,"  said 
the  presence.  "And  those  who  receive  me  as  you  are  doing 
teach  mankind  how  to  live.  Let  us  work  together  and 
make  this  visitation,  not  a  curse,  but  a  blessing." 

PEOPLE  WONDERED  at  the  change  in  the  woman.  Where 
she  had  once  been  weak  and  ill  and  depressed,  she  now 
seemed  to  be  infused  with  strength  and  health  and  good 
cheer.  The  trials  of  life  she  met  in  a  way  that  made  them 
sources  of  power.  When  someone  asked  her  to  explain 
the  mystery,  she  merely  laughed  and  she  said:  "There's 
no  mystery.  IVe  merely  learned  how  to  be  normal." 


175 


A  HATER  OF  EVIL 

THERE  was  a  man  hated  evil.    Each  day  of  his  life 
he  warred  against  it  desperately,  mercilessly.    The 
evil-doers  in  his  path  he  made  to  feel  the  sting  of 
his  lash.     Those  beyond  his  reach,  whenever  they  came 
within  the  range  of  his  consciousness,  he  exposed  and  de 
nounced. 

SUDDENLY  THE  MAN  fell  ill.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  the 
savor  of  life.  In  the  morning  when  he  awoke  he  would 
dread  facing  the  new  day.  It  was  only  with  difficulty  that 
he  persuaded  himself  to  get  up.  His  tasks,  once  per 
formed  so  easily  and  so  joyously,  became  a  burden.  There 
were  moments  when  he  lost  heart  and  wavered.  Then  he 
would  gather  himself  together  and  go  on. 

After  a  time  the  man  felt  as  if  he  were  in  the  power  of 
an  evil  spirit.  With  all  his  will  he  resisted.  The  more 
he  suffered  the  more  he  hated  evil,  and  the  more  deter 
mined  he  was  to  do  what  he  could  to  destroy  it. 

ONE  DAY  THE  MAN  COLLAPSED.  He  was  taken  home  and 
the  doctors  were  sent  for.  When  they  found  how  long 
he  had  been  suffering  they  were  reproachful.  "You  have 
been  overworking,"  one  declared.  And  another  said:  "If 
you  don't  take  a  long  rest  you  will  be  dead  in  a  year." 

So  THE  MAN  STOPPED  WORKING.  He  put  aside  all  worldly 
ambition.  He  rested.  But  he  went  on  with  his  war 
against  evil.  During  the  next  few  weeks  he  improved. 
He  felt  sure  that  he  was  going  to  recover.  With  increas 
ing  strength  he  felt  stimulated  in  his  battle  against  the 
forces  that  made  for  unrighteousness.  He  had  more  time 
to  think  of  evildoers.  More  keenly  he  realized  their  mis 
chief.  If  they  could  only  be  punished  and  destroyed,  the 


A  HATER  OF  EVIL 

world  would  become  a  really  beautiful  place,  instead  of 
what  it  was,  an  abode  of  sin  and  vice. 

GRADUALLY  THE  MAN  began  to  sink  again.  The  doctors 
were  puzzled.  They  agreed  that  he  needed  a  change  of 
scene.  So  they  sent  him  abroad.  There  he  found  more 
evil.  It  flaunted  itself  before  him  outrageously,  shame 
lessly.  It  seemed  to  him  worse  here  than  at  home.  He 
was  glad  to  return.  He  said  that  the  only  good  the 
change  had  done  him  was  making  him  see  that  bad  as  the 
conditons  in  his  own  country  were,  they  seemed  good  by 
comparison. 

FOR  A  FEW  DAYS  the  man  felt  so  happy  that  he  felt  sure 
he  was  going  to  recover.  After  all,  those  doctors  weren't 
so  foolish  as  he  had  begun  to  suspect.  As  he  became  used 
to  being  at  home,  he  felt  around  him  those  evil  influences. 
Again  he  lifted  his  voice  in  protest.  Soon  he  discovered 
that  he  had  fallen  back.  Life  had  become  hideous  once 
more.  It  was  anguish  to  think  of  waking  up  in  the  morn 
ing  and  meeting  life  again. 

FINALLY,  the  doctors  became  irritated.  They  told  the 
man  that  they  had  done  everything  in  their  power.  The 
trouble  was  that  he  did  not  co-operate.  He  must  make  an 
effort  to  pull  himself  up.  If  he  did  not  there  was  no 
knowing  what  might  happen.  There  might  be  a  complete 
mental  breakdown. 

Now  the  man  was  terrified.  He  made  the  effort  and 
failed.  He  was  in  despair.  Someone  advised  him  to  try 
another  kind  of  doctor,  one  who  worked,  not  with  the 
body,  but  with  the  mind  and  the  soul.  "You  have  always 
been  a  religious  man.  You  couldn't  fail  to  respond  to  that 
kind  of  treatment." 

RELUCTANTLY  THE  MAN  called  on  the  new  doctor.  At 
considerable  length  he  outlined  his  symptoms.  The  doctor 

177 


A  HATER  OF  EVIL 


asked  him  questions,  not  about  the  symptoms,  but  about 
matters  apparently  unrelated  to  the  case,  mainly  about  his 
thoughts  and  his  way  of  living.  The  man  explained  that 
his  habits  had  always  been  good.  He  had  never  done  any 
thing  to  be  ashamed  of.  And  as  for  his  thoughts^  he 
detested  evil  of  every  kind. 

"Ah,"  said  the  doctor,  his  face  brightening,  and  he 
listened  with  obvious  interest  while  the  man  eagerly  told 
of  his  life-long  fight  against  evildoers.  "I  think  I  under 
stand  your  trouble  now." 

"Is  there  any  hope  for  me?" 

"Oh,  yes.  There's  hope  for  everyone.  Your  case  is 
easy.  You  can  cure  yourself." 

THE  LOOK  OF  RELIEF  in  the  man's  face  disappeared. 
"When  you  talk  like  that  you  take  the  heart  out  of  me." 

The  doctor  burst  out  laughing. 

"My  case  is  very  peculiar,"  the  man  went  on,  frowning 
resentfully.  "It  has  baffled  some  pretty  big  men." 

"I  have  cases  like  yours  every  day."  The  doctor  ceased 
to  smile.  "In  fact,  most  cases  are  like  yours.  They 
come  from  the  same  cause." 

"What  cause?"  the  man  asked  suspiciously. 

"Evil." 

The  man's  face  brightened.  "Do  you  mean  the  evil  in 
the  world?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  mean  the  evil  in  you,  the  evil  that  you  have 
allowed  to  take  possession  of  your  mind." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  the  man.  "All  the  evil  that 
I  know  is  the  evil  I  see  in  people  that  lead  bad  lives  and 
do  harm." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "What  you  call  their  evil 
is  only  blundering.  It  comes  from  weakness.  It  is  to  be 
pitied." 

"But  isn't  it  my  duty  to  hate  it  and  to  hate  the  people 
that  are  responsible  for  it?" 


A  HATER  OF  EVIL 

"Hating  only  makes  it  worse.  And  hating  poisons  the 
hater.  You  have  been  poisoning  yourself.  All  the  blun 
dering  that  you  have  seen  you  have  turned  into  evil  with 
your  hating.  You  have  made  it  a  part  of  yourself.  Wher 
ever  you  have  gone  you  have  carried  it  about  in  your 
consciousness.  No  wonder  your  health  has  collapsed.  The 
marvel  is  that  you  should  have  borne  up  as  well  as  you 
have  done  with  all  those  horrors  in  you,  alive  every  minute 
and  generating  disease." 

THE  MAN  sat  in  silence,  motionless,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
doctor.  "What  am  I  to  do?"  he  said  at  last. 

"Simply  reject  the  evil.  When  you  see  it  in  the  world 
realize  it  for  what  it  is,  not  for  what  it  is  not.  Think  of  all 
the  good  in  the  minds  and  the  hearts  of  the  people  you 
have  been  hating.  It's  the  good  in  them  that  keeps  them 
alive.  It  continually  denies  their  blundering  and  tries  to 
lead  them  to  wisdom.  Mistaken  as  they  are,  there  are 
many  among  them  that  are  not  nearly  as  mistaken  as  you 
have  been.  Then  think  of  all  the  marvels  of  goodness 
that  lie  everywhere  around  you.  They  are  waiting  to  pour 
their  health  and  strength  into  you. 

The  man  drew  a  long  breath.  "I  feel  better  already," 
he  said. 

The  doctor  smiled.  "All  we  need  in  this  world,"  he 
said,  "is  understanding." 


179 


BY   THE   SAME   AUTHOR 

(Uniform  Edition) 

INTIMATIONS 

A  Collection  of  Brief  Essays  Deeding  Mainly 
with  Aspects  of  Everyday  Living 

The  forty  or  more  brief  essays  which  make  up  this 
beautiful  book  cover  a  great  variety  of  everyday 
subjects  and  are  written  with  the  rare  charm  of 
perfect  simplicity  and  clearness. — The  Cincinnati  En 
quirer. 

A  very  readable  book  is  Mr.  Barry's  "Intimations," 
the  kind  of  book  that  one  takes  pleasure  in  possess 
ing  because  its  interest  is  so  human,  its  earnestness 
so  convincing,  its  quiet  humor  so  sympathetic  and  its 
comments  upon  life  and  peoples  so  keen. — The 
Craftsman. 

Read  this  book  carefully  in  odd  half  hours,  and  it 
will  add  much  to  your  knowledge  of  life;  it  will 
make  your  heart  tender  to  those  who  are  bearing 
heavy  burdens;  it  will  help  you  to  endure  the  fre 
quent  ingratitude  which  is  the  portion  of  the  warm 
hearted.  And  when  you  have  got  all  there  is  in  it, 
send  the  book  to  a  friend,  and  thus  spread  the  gospel 
of  helpfulness. — George  Hamlin  Fitch,  in  the  San 
Francisco  Chronicle. 

From  the  press  of  Paul  Elder  comes  a  new  book 
of  consequence.  It  is  called  "Intimations,"  and  is 
from  the  pen  of  John  D.  Barry,  by  profession  a 
critic,  by  nature  constructive  and  by  cultivation  a 
writer  of  rare  charm.  In  the  past  he  has  written 
several  books  of  merit,  but  this  last  has  in  it  a  note 
of  golden  maturity,  which  outstrips  the  rest.  It  is 
mellow  and  beautiful  and  we  doubt  if  America  has 
produced  anything  in  an  essay  since  the  days  of 
Emerson  that  is  more  choice. — The  Los  Angeles 
Times. 


ro  SO 
TO      0 


THIS  BOOK 
WILL  INCH 

DAY     AND     TO     $1-OO 

OVERDUE 


ON 


FOURTH 


OCT   13  1943 

lOSep'531* 
SEP  2  8 1953  LU 


LD  2l-50m-8,-32 


30238$      ,jt 


0 


UNIVERSITY  ©F  CALIFORNIA.  -.I*IB£ARY 


m 


m 


i 


mt 

mm 


